AT  THE  ACTORS' 
BOARDING    HOUSE 

AND 

OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

HELEN    GREEN 

Author  of  "  Out  With  the  Brass  Band,"  "  One  Night  Stands,"  Etc. 


NEW   YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1907 


Copyright,  1905,  by  THE  MORNING  TELEGRAPH 
Copyright,  1906,  by  HELEN  GREEN 


ALL  DRAMATIC  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The  Honeymoon  of  Sam  and  Caroline 1 

The  Disastrous  Bookmaking  of  Red-Cheeked  Ru- 
dolph      15 

Emma,  the  Slavey,  Makes  Good  in  Vaudeville 19 

The  Doings  of  an  Amateur  Valet 29 

Allen  &  Allen  Split,  but  Come  Together  Again 33 

The  Unreality  of  Realism 46 

The  Romance  of  the  Rearranged  Paris 50 

The  Fickleness  of  Pugnose  Grady's  Girl 59 

The  Fake  Eviction 63 

The  Rise  and  Fall  of  Dooley's  Dog  Act 67 

Mr.  De  Shine's  Return 77 

The  Way  of  the  Music  Hall  Song  Bird 81 

Dopey  Polly  Never  Reached  the  Orchard 85 

Making  a  Prince  Into  a  Good  Sport 90 

The  Poker  Game  in  the  Pullman  Smoker 104 

The  Troubles  of  Two  Working  Girls 108 

When  Black  Moose  Met  His  Waterloo 112 

Creating  of  a  Top-Line  Act 116 

The  Finish  of  Daffy,  the  Dip 127 

The  Code  of  the  Hills 131 

The  Political  Beginning  of  Solly  McGee 136 

How  the  Soubrettes  Broke  a  Lease 140 

The  Manager's  New  Wife 149 

Mary  Had  to  Have  Her  Broadway.. 153 

Flatnose  Ed  Takes  His  Medicine 164 

The  Comedian's  Wives 168 

The  Boston  Kid's  Last  Trip 172 


CONTENTS— continued 

PACK 

The  Rival  Landladies  and  the  Bridal  Party 184 

The  Emperor's  Pipe 194 

Confessions  of  a  Con  Man 199 

Pinafore  and  "  The  Duke  "  in  a  Corporation 210 

The  Lead  Dollar 220 

Mr.  De  Shine  Wins  Out 228 

Injun  Billy's  Blonde 232 

New  York  Arabian  Nights 238 

Cap.  Brown's  Water  Treat 242 

The  Adventures  of  Clarence,  the  Messenger  Boy..  250 

Topeka  Thompson's  Educated  Dice 254 

In  Habid's  Kitchen 265 

The  Love  of  One-Arm  Annie 269 

The  Way  It  Goes  on  Broadway 273 

Romance  of  an  Acrobat  and  a  Darning  Needle 278 

The  Further  Adventures  of  Clarence 286 

Mrs.  Jimmy  Goes  Camping 290 

The  Weeping  Greaser's  Revenge 302 

The  Sultan's  Troupe 307 

The  Noodle's  Flat 311 

Out  With  the  Big  Top 316 

A  Woman  of  the  Hills 320 

The  Troubles  of  Two  Working  Girls 327 

J.  Wallace  Barrington's  Troupe  Leave  a  Board 

Bill 330 

When  the  Thunder  Mountain  Mail  Came  In 341 

Old  Peter 346 

Clancy,  the  Copper  and  the  Kid 350 

The  Fake  Hop  Fiends 358 

Roosevelt  Has  a  Christmas  Party 362 

Nat  M.  Wills  and  the  Hairless  "Mystery" 372 

Their  First  Night  in  a  Sleeper 377 


Acknowledgement  is  made  by  the  author  to  THE  MORNING 
TELEGRAPH,  in  which  these  stories  have  appeared. 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND   CAROLINE. 

whole  week,  with  every  romantic  damsel  in  the  place 
hanging  around  the  theatre,  and  cadging  the  price  of  a 
seat  from  mother,  under  some  pretense  or  other?  It 
wasn't  every  girl  who  could  cop  out  the  leader  of  a 
show  which  in  its  youth  had  played  a  season  on  Broad- 
way, and  was  all  to  the  good  even  now.  And  Sam  was 
a  pretty  good  sort,  too. 

He'd  been  mooning'  around  all  the  way  from  the 
Coast,  about  a  certain  little  party  back  East,  until 
everybody  was  sick  and  tired  of  him. 

And  now  Caroline  was  Mrs.  Sam,  and  just  crazy  to 
know  all  about  "the  business."  She  said  they'd  go 
where  Sam  had  lived  before,  and  not  to  any  pokey  old 
place. 

The  actors'  boarding  house  for  hers,  and  Sam,  dubi- 
ous at  first — he  lived  in  'em  a  long  time — finally  agreed 
although  reason  warned  him  not  to  do  it.  In  the  shade 
of  the  jumpy  gas  jet,  Mrs.  de  Shine  shook  Sam's  hand. 

"Yuh  done  finne,"  said  she,  heartily.  "An'  all  I  hope 
is  that  Mis'  Smith  don't  find  out  the  kind  of  guy  yuh 
really  are.  Wait'll  we  all  git  tugether,  Mis'  Smith,  an' 
we  won't  do  a  thing  tuh  him !" 

Caroline  was  puzzled.  Sam  had  sworn  that  his  past 
was  on  open  book,  and  here  right  off  the  jump,  some 
one  was  ready  to  bust  up  a  happy  home. 

"She's  only  kidding,"  said  Sam,  uneasily,  nudging 
his  wife.  "Say,  how  about  the  two  rooms?  Get  my 
letter?"  Mrs.  de  Shine  told  them  about  the  mean  man 
who  wouldn't  get  out.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  and 
they  were  tired.  Any  old  thing  would  do  until  morn- 
ing, when  all  should  be  framed  up  properly.  Sam's 
show  had  seven  weeks  booked  around  New  York,  and 
he'd  be  living  like  a  regular  person,  instead  of  in  his 
Taylor,  this  trip. 

A  man  came  hurriedly  in,  bearing  a  tin  pail,  as  they 
stood  in  the  hall. 

"Jimmy!"  shouted  the  boss.  "I  told  yuh  boys  onct 
yuh  couldn't  rush  no  duck  in  this  house !  Take  that 
out  a'  here  this  minnit,  an'  then  I  want  tuh  see  yuh ! 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

The  very  idee!"  Abashed,  Jimmy  slunk  out  again, 
bearing  the  growler,  as  the  boss  led  the  way  to  the 
bridal  suite. 

"The  bath's  jest  around  this  hall,"  she  said.  "Of 
course,  it  looks  very  plain  now  in  here,  but  when  this 
bed's  out,  an  that  old  grouch  in  the  back  room  vamps, 
we'll  have  a  grand  little  soot  fur  yuh.  I  know  yuh'll 
like  it.  I  set  a  good  table,  ef  I  do  say  it  myself,  as  Sam 
knows.  He  oughter,  with  him  an'  Daisy  livin'  here  off 
an'  on  fur  six  years,  when" 

She  stopped.  Even  she  could  feel  the  chill  in  the 
silence. 

"Daisy?"  repeated  Sam's  new  wife.     "Daisy  who?" 

"Why,  his  fust  wife,  dear/'returned  Mrs.  de  Shine, 
sociably.  "An'  after  they  quit,  Sam  kep'  a  comin'  here, 
'cause  it  was  like  home.  Didn't  yuh,  Sam?" 

"Yes,"  muttered  Sam  hoarsely,  adding  privately,  "I 
hope  she  chokes,  the  old  fool !" 

Mrs.  de  Shine  explained  the  freezing  feel  of  the  air 
to  Caroline,  who  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  the  good 
lady.  The  furnace  man  was  off  on  a  souse  again,  and 
he'd  just  put  the  heat  on  the  fritz  for  fair,  and  what 
with  vaudeville  people,  a  drama  and  a  burlesque  troop 
all  getting  in  early  Sunday  morning,  she  didn't  know  if 
she  was  afoot  or  horseback. 

"I  was  onct  in  the  perfession,  too,  dear,"  she  ob- 
served. "Ast  any  one  about  Maggie  Mooney,  who 
done  the  fust  livin'  pitchers  in  bronze  at  the  old  Cali- 
fornia Theatre  in  San  Fran.  That  was  me,  an'  I'm 
there  with  the  shape  even  now.  Yuh  can't  tell  with 
these  old  duds  on  a'  course.  Well  good-night. 
Breakfast's  till  nine  thutty.  S'long,  Sam,  ef  she  beats 
yuh  holler  fur  help.  I'm  allus  kiddin',  dear,  'cause  I'm 
cheerful." 

She  closed  the  door  and  Caroline  sat  down  upon 
the  edge  of  a  lumpy  bed.  The  light  was  bad,  but  Sam 
could  see  his  finish. 

"So  you  were  married  before?"  she  remarked  po- 
litely. "You  never  told  me.  Why  didn't  you?" 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

"Honey !"  began  Sam  desperately.  It  was  like 
this,  see?  Me  and  Daisy  quit,  and  she  got  a  divorce. 
But  this  is  different  this  time,  and  I  thought — 

But  why  relate  more  of  this  painful  interview? 
Talking  low,  because  of  the  mean  man  next  door, 
Sam  and  his  bride  hooked  up  in  a  battle  of  words  in 
which  each  came  out  frankly  and  said  what  they 
thought.  Jimmy,  the  buck  dancer,  slinking  softly 
along  like  the  tent-folding  Ara'bs,  set  down  his 
growler — the  boss  had  gone  to  bed — and  dusted  the 
keyhole  with  his  ear  while  he  listened  delightedly  to 
the  row  inside.  It  was  great. 

The  sketch  team,  coming  home  late  from  a  friend's 
flat  went  creaking  upward,  toward  the  mysterious 
gloom  of  the  fourth  floor  back.  The  juggler's  bull 
pup  barked  loudly  and  angrily  from  the  third  floor. 
Jimmy  heard  sobs  from  the  bride.  He  sighed  disap- 
pointedly. Same  old  gag;  they'd  make  up,  while  he 
had  hoped  for  a  good,  furniture-smashing  row.  He 
took  up  the  growler  and  joined  the  Bronxville  Com- 
edy Four,  impatiently  awaiting  his  arrival  on  the  top 
floor.  All  was  quiet  in  the  actor's  boarding  hour.e. 

Caroline  felt  better.  The  steam  was  on,  and  the  sun 
shone  in  as  she  dressed.  She  had  read  that  the  sun  is 
always  shining  on  Broadway,  and  was  glad  that  it 
took  in  Irving  Place  also.  The  three  big  trunks,  open, 
had  mounds  beside  them,  in  which  Caroline  had 
searched  for  various  things,  and  had  not  found.  There 
was  no  running  water,  so  Sam  took  the  pitcher  and 
located  the  bathroom,  and  returning  he  reported  that 
the  hot  water  didn't  seem  to  be  running. 

Caroline  started  to  see  for  herself.  An  amiable 
blonde  in  a  soiled  white  kimono,  directed  our  heroine 
to  the  bathroom.  Sam  was  right.  It  was  a  painted 
tub,  dingy  in  spots  where  the  white  had  worn  off.  But 
the  locked  door  of  the  room  held  by  the  mean  man 
would  fix  things.  "Our  bath's  in  there,  of  course," 
she  told  Sam.  She  felt  beastly,  after  all  that  crying 
last  night,  and  Sam  might  have  had  eight  wives,  could 

4 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

she  have  but  connected  with  a  bath  of  the  sort  one 
got  at  home  in  Utica. 

"That  was  our  bath  you  just  looked  at,"  said  Sam 
sadly.  "I  knew  it  would  be  rotten  here,  Caroline. 
They  haven't  any  private  baths." 

"No  baths?  No  hot  water — and  yet  on  the  stage, 
in  Sam's  own  show,  were  depicted  drawing  rooms  and 
all  that,  and  people  wore  swell  clothes — some  of  'em 
MUST  have  baths!" 

"I'm  going  to  get  a  piano  sent  up  from  Billy 
Tway's,"  said  Sam  suddenly.  I  need  it.  Want  to  fin- 
ish a  couple  of  songs."-  That  would  be  nice.  Sam 
should  play  for  her.  They  could  bathe  in  the  wash 
basin.  That  bath  with  the  newspapers  floating  around 
the  bottom  should  never  hold  her  form. 

They  went  down  to  breakfast.  Caroline  took  a  last 
look  into  the  mirror,  put  a  bit  more  powder  on  her 
nose,  then  rustled  out  sure  that  no  female  guest  had 
her  beaten  on  the  go-in.  That  blue  dress  was  a  pretty 
nifty  affair. 

The  frozy  blonde  and  the  landlady  alone  occupied 
the  dining  room.  They  were  telling  therr  troubles. 
The  blonde  meant  to  have  George  pinched  unless  he 
paid  up  his  alimony.  He  was  making  a  hundred  a 
week  with  his  dog  act,  and  she  could  starve.  She  took 
another  bite  of  steak,  shaking  her  peroxided  head  dis- 
mally. Her  locks  were  clasped  by  curl  papers,  promis- 
ing a  wealth  of  curly  golden  glory  later. 

"Set  right  down,  I  want  yuh  tuh  meet  Gertie," 
greeted  the  landlady.  "She's  in  the  business,  too,  dear, 
an'  she  knowed  Daisy,  so  yuh  an'  her'll  get  on  great. 
Emmar,  give  Mis'  Smith  the  breakfast  food." 

The  blonde  smiled  wanly.  "I  was  settin'  In  Ziemer's 
till  all  hours,  with  Holbrook,  Brown  an'  Smudge — the 
musical  act,  you  know — an'  mebbe  I  ain't  feelin'  dret- 
ful,"  she  confided.  "Well,  how  do  yuh  like  Noo 
York?" 

Caroline  said  she  hardly  knew  yet,  and  gave  atten- 

5 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

tion  to  Emma.  "Steak,  poke  chops  an'  ham  an'  aig," 
said  the  slavey  swiftly  in  Caroline's  shell-like  ear. 

"Ham  and   EGGS,"   replied  Caroline  distinctly. 

The  boss  motioned  the  slavey  to  her  side. 

"If  she  wants  two,  she  kin  have  'em,  Emmar,"  she 
said  in  a  whisper.  "Fur  this  onct.  I  want  her  tuh  like 
it  here." 

Caroline  endeavored  to  retain  an  air  of  hauteur. 
She  disliked  the  blonde's  familiar  manners,  and  on  such 
short  acquaintance.  But  she  couldn't  speak  to  Sam 
without  the  two  friendly  ladies  overhearing.  Hungrily, 
the  bridal  pair  scraped  up  the  last  bite  of  fried  sawdust 
and  thin  milk,  filling  up  on  bread  while  the  ham  was 
being  prepared. 

They  could  hear  it  frying  noisily  in  the  kitchen,  and 
shortly  Emma  arrived  with  two  plates.  There  were 
two  eggs  for  the  favored  bride,  one  for  Sam.  Under 
the  eggs  nestled  coyly  an  inch  or  so  of  true  Four- 
teenth street  ham.  It  was  hard  and  brittle,  and  good 
for  the  teeth.  The  coffee  was  the  kind  that  seems  to 
linger  with  one.  You  can't  lose  the  taste  of  it,  and  so 
drink  a  little  more,  just  to  see  if  it's  really  as  bad  as  it 
seemed  at  first,  or  if  perchance  'twas  but  a  horrid 
fancy.  i 

"Well,  can  you  stand  it,  baby?"  asked  Sam,  as  they 
re-entered  the  bridal  suite.  Caroline  pouted  a  little, 
but  said  she  was  game. 

The  burlesque  ladies  in  the  next  room  called,  after 
Sam  had  gone  out.  Caroline  was  helping  the  boss 
and  the  slavey  to  make  beautiful  her  home.  The 
mean  man  had  gone ;  the  bedroom  he  had  vacated  was 
a  dark  little  room,  with  a  cheery  view  of  an  air  shaft, 
and  seven  empty  peroxide  bottles  upon  the  window 
sill,  left  by  a  former  female  occupant. 

The  burlesque  ladies  were  chatty.  They  were 
"good  fellows,"  too,  but  Caroline  regarded  them 
suspiciously.  Nice  girls  wouldn't  show  their — well, 
their  legs ! — in  tights. 

"I  ain't  buttin'  in,"  said  Margie,  the  fat  one.  "But 

6 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

take  a  tip  from  me,  my  dear.  You're  young,  an'  you 
just  watch  that  Sam  like  you  would  a  serpent.  Them 
men  is  all  the  same,  Ain't  they,  Minnie?" 

"It's  the  Gawd's  truth,"  said  Minnie,  solemnly. 
"She  knows,  an'  her  with  three  husbands.  Sam's  other 
wife,  Flossie,  was  in  the  same  company." 

Fine  for  Sam.  They  fixed  it  for  him  in  great  shape. 
Caroline  opened  her  innocent  heart,  and  told  'em  about 
Daisy.  Where  did  Flossie  come  in?" 

"Listen,  my  dear,  them  piano  players  is  like  sailors 
— a  gell  in  every  town !  Oh,  they're  the  clips.  But 
that  ain't  sayin'  he  ain't  on  the  level  with  you,  'cause 
since  he  got  this  job  as  leader  he's  been  all  right — 
and,  anyway,  them  marriages  was  a  good  while  ago." 

Fortunately,  the  girls  had  to  get  across  to  the 
Dewey  for  a  matinee,  or  Sam's  hearthstone  might  have 
been  devastated  completely.  Caroline  went  out  for  a 
walk,  wondering  if  all  the  folks  would  know  it  was 
Sam  Smith's  wife.  In  her  absence,  four  large  gentle- 
men brought  the  piano,  which  took  up  most  of  the 
space  in  the  sitting-room.  She  and  Sam  seated  at 
it,  laboring  at  a  melody  to  fit  a  set  of  words.  Caro- 
line orated  on  the  subject  of  Flossie,  and  Sam  let 
the  song  go.  Finally,  Caroline  did  a  property  faint 
staggering  into  the  gloomy  depths  of  the  chilly  bed- 
room, but  Sam,  with  all  his  experience,  wouldn't  call. 

Cruelly,  the  cold-hearted  wretch  went  back  to  the 
piano.  Caroline,  listening,  decided  that  he  intended 
to  play  something  soft  and  sweet,  to  soothe  his  little 
bride.  "Turn-turn,  tumity-tum !  No,  that's  too  high." 
said  Sam,  out  at  the  piano,  and  he  tried  another  metre. 

"Hell!  I've  made  this  two  bars  too  long!" 

"Tumity-tum — turn-turn !" 

Why,  this  was  maddening,  to  have  that  man  calmly 
banging  away  at  his  old  piano,  while  she  was  perhaps 
dying,  for  all  he  cared.  She  squeezed  out  two  real 
tears,  beginning  to  thoroughly  enjoy  her  misery. 

"Why,  hello,  Sammy  dear!"  called  out  a  female 
voice.  "Just  heard  you  were  here!  Married  again, 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

eh,  you  scamp?  We  was  playin'  New  Orleans,  and 
didn't  we  run  in  Maizie,  your  third  wife.  Her  and 
her  noo  husband  was  on  the  bill  with  us  at  the 
Orpheum,  and  I  told  her" — — 

"Hush,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  begged  Sam.  "Cut 
those  jokes  out !" 

Too    late, 

Caroline,  a  hectic  flush  upon  her  fair  cheeks,  con- 
fronted the  visitor. 

"You  tell  Maizie" she  began,  furiously,  but  the 

visitor  was  hastily  scamping  down  the  stairs.  Caro- 
line went  in  earnest,  and  Sam  put  in  a  few  minutes  at 
the  strongest  talk  of  his  career.  So  she  said  they 
would  begin  life  anew;  mutual  trust,  and  all  that. 

"Baby,  I  love  you'  Honest  Injun,  that's  no  kid. 
I  may  have  been  mixed  up  foolishly  once,  but  it's  all 
over  now.  Give  us  a  kiss!"  cried  Sam. 

Caroline  forgave  him.  "How  much  will  you  get 
for  the  song,  dear?"  she  asked  curiously. 

Sam  considered. 

"About  twenty  down  and  a  royalty,"  said  he. 
"There  goes  the  bell.  We  better  beat  it  to  the  table, 
or  it'll  be  wait  in  the  hall  for  ours !" 

Twenty  dollars  for  a  song!  She  had  supposed  a 
thousand  or  even  more  was  the  price.  Wthat  a  nasty, 
hateful  old  world  was  this,  where  nothing  was  as 
folks  back  in  Utica  thought.  They  supposed  her  at 
this  moment  costly  domiciled  at  the  St.  Wreckus. 

She  sat  between  Sam  and  the  Property  Man,  who 
had  boarded  there  a  long  while.  He  ate  very  rapidly, 
and  renewed  supplies  frequently.  Something  rubbed 
against  Caroline's  dress. 

It  was  a  lovely  little  white  poodle,  the  boss'  Fido. 

"Oh,  Sam,  isn't  he  CUTE?"  she  trilled.  A  snicker 
went  around  the  table.  Could  it  be  that  some  human 
creature  approved  of  the  beast  whom  one  and  all  hated  ? 

"Take  him  right  intuh  yer  lap,  dear,  ef  yuh  want 
to,"  said  Mrs,  de  Shine,  encouragingly.  "I  just  know 

8 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

yuh'll  love  my  baby  Fido.  Give  the  nice  lady  a  kiss, 
Fido !" 

"Cut  it  out!"  roared  Sam.  "Cuss  it  all!  my  wife 
don't  want  dogs  around  at  dinner!" 

Mrs.  de  Shine  glanced  at  him  reproachfully.  "Yer 
fourth  wife,  Birdie  Harrington  that  was,  now  Mis' 
John  Spencer,  of  Spencer,  Harrington  &  Jones — she 
liked  dawgs,  Sam  Smith,"  said  she.  "But  a'  course, 
soot  yuhself.  Have  some  pitattas1,  Mis'  Smith,  they'll 
hearten  yuh  up.  I  guess  yuh  got  yer  own  troubles." 

Caroline's  smartly  coiffured  blonde  head  buzzed 
with  this  new  horror. 

Another  wife!  Oh,  the  Mormon,  or  if  not  a  real 
one,  just  as  bad 

"I  will  have  some  steak,"  she  said,  unsteadily,  to 
the  attentive  Emma. 

The  buck  dancer's  wife  kicked  the  soubrette  under 
the  table. 

"She'll  hand  it  to  him  before  he  goes  to  the  show- 
shop,"  she  observed.  "Tell  the  girls  to  keep  it  up. 
Ain't  it  fun?" 

Sam  ate  nothing.  He  wasn't  hungry,  and  finally, 
with  the  boarders  frankly  viewing  Caroline's  old  gold 
silk,  donned  just  to  let  the  actress  see  how  the  smart 
set  dressed  in  Utica,  he  and  Caroline  went  upstairs. 

"It's  a  darned  lie,  all  of  it,  except  Flossie  and 
Maizie !" 

"It  is  eh?"  answered  his  wife.  "You  left  out  Daisy. 
And  who  did  you  marry  in  Seattle  in  '98?  Tell  me 
that,  you  viper!" 

"Who  told  you  that?"  stormed  Sam,  red-faced,  and 
caught  with  the  goods. 

"A  certain  party,"  replied  His  wife,  firmly.  Ye  gods ! 
One  day  in  the  actors'  boarding  house,  and  she  had 
the  deadwood  on  him  for  keeps! 

"I  wish  I  was  dead !  sobbed  Caroline,  ungrammat- 
ically. 

It  was  7.30;  time  to  get  to  the  theatre.  It  was  an 
unsatisfactory  farewell,  but  the  poor  must  work.  Sam 

9 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

said  a  few  kind  words  to  various  persons  congre- 
gatedin  the  dark  hall  as  he  left. 

"I  wish  a  MAN  would  start  it,"  he  said,  pointedly. 
"If  he  does,  he'll  need  a  couple  of  new  eyes  and  some 
teeth."  Caroline  spent  the  evening  sitting  on  the 
floor  with  the  tousled  blonde,  and  Mrs.  de  Shine.  The 
ladies  cleaned  their  diamonds  and  told  tales  of  their 
early  married  life.  And  they  told  her  not  to  fret.  It 
was  just  as  well  to  hav  something  on  Sam,  and  all 
the  ex-wives  were  married  again.  . 

Sam,  playing  first  violin  and  directing,  crabbed  the 
leading  woman's  best  song,  and  killed  the  juvenile's 
solo.  He  slipped  out  and  had  seven  drinks  with  the 
trap  drummer,  and  felt  better  before  the  show  ended. 
It  was  his  own  little  pet  who  met  him  on  his  return. 
He  came  up  the  stairs  with  the  Three  Winstantine 
Sisters,  who  merrily  shouted  goodnight  as  the  door 
opened. 

"Who  were  those  women?"  inquired  his  wife,  and 
Sam  thanked  Heaven  there  had  been  three  instead  of 
one. 

There  was  a  quart  of  champagne,  sent  by  Genaro  & 
Bailey,  as  a  wedding  gift,  and,  this  Sam  proposed  they 
drink.  He  turned  up  his  coat  collar,  skated  down  to 
Fourteenth  street  to  the  restaurant  which  never  closes, 
there  procured  four  ham  sandwiches  and  a  dill  pickle, 
and  hustled  back  to  his  bride. 

They  drank  from  a  toothbrush  mug  and  a  glass, 
Sam  gallantly  helping  his  wife. 

There  was  a  fight  outside  in  the  street,  and  a 
string  of  fire  engines  answering  an  alarm,  and  thus 
entertained  the  bridal  pair,  with  the  cheering  grape 
making  life  appear  a  pretty  fair  proposition  after  all. 
agreed  once  more  to  let  it  go  at  that. 


Sam's  show  was  putting  on  new  numbers.     He  had 
to  stage  them,  and  it  took  every  minute  of  spare  time. 
Caroline  sat  at  home,  writing  letters  to  the  folks  and 
•     10 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

talking"  scandal  to  the  show  ladies,  a  fresh  lot  of  whom 
arrived  every  Sunday  morning  at  the  Maison  de  Shine. 

They  tramped  heavily  up  the  stairs  from  five  in  the 
morning  on,  making  joyous  the  happy  Sabbath  days. 
The  second  floor  front  (Caroline  and  Sam)  lay  in  their 
lumpy  bed  and  violently  wished  that  death  might  over- 
take the  tramping  newcomers,  but  it  never  did. 

Three  weeks  of  the  honeymoon  were  over.  Caro- 
line had  looked  forward  to  a  jolly  life,  in  which  each 
evening  would  fine  the  leader's  wife  ensconced  in  the 
best  box  at  the  show,  with  company  and  audience 
respectfully  admiring. 

Another  fond  hope  shattered.  She'd  been  in  back 
twice,  and  had  a  row  with  Sam  because  the  ingenue 
made  goo-goo  eyes  at  him  during  her  second  song. 

"I  can't  help  it,  it's  only  the  'business' !"  expostulat- 
ed Sam.  "Great  Scott,  that's  a  gag  as  old  as  I  am, 
my  dear  child.  Have  a  little  sense.  Gee,  ain't  I 
home  every  minute  between  shows,  except  when  I  have 
to  go  to  Publishers'  Row  for  new  stuff?" 

"You  don't  take  me  up  there,"  argued  Caroline. 
"You  mean  old  thing." 

"I  don't  want  you  there !"  cried  Sam,  earnestly.  "I'll 
be  leading  on  Broadway  soon,  and  I  don't  want  you 
with  these  people.  Maybe  I'll  take  my  own  orchestra 
out,  like  Herbert.  It  ain't  such  a  joke,  at  that." 

"You  ought  to  see  my  wife,"  he  told  the  boys  on 
Twenty-eighth  street.  "Cheerful  little  soul — yes. 
But  no  sittin'  up  all  night  under  the  bright  lights  for 
hers.  We  stay  home  and  play  cards.  That's  the  life 
for  me.  Great." 

They  now  had  three  week  stands  just  outside  of 
New  York,  and  Caroline,  when  Sam  invited  her  to  go 
along,  declined.  She  guessed  she'd  rather  stay  behind. 
He  was  bit  relieved.  Now  he  could  put  on  a  certain 
rollicking  number  with  a  lot  of  catchy  business,  and 
teach  the  chorus  without  Caroline  turning  up  and 
threatening  to  lick  a  few  of  the  ladies. 

And  Caroline,  at  home,  while  Sam  bragged  to  all  and 

ii 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

sundry  about  his  wife,  who  was  one  woman  with  no 
wish  to  bust  into  the  profession,  gave  heed  to  the 
tempter's  voice. 

The  fat  ex-burlesque  queen  did  it. 

"My  dear,"  said  she.  "You're  wastin'  your  life. 
With  your  face  an'  figger,  you  should  be  headin'  a 
show.  Kin  you  dance  at  all?  No?  Tain't  hard  to 
learn.  I  cud  put  you  in  the  show  business  in  a  month. 
Ain't  that  right  Maggie?" 

Mrs.  de  Shine,  who  was  present — she  and  Caroline 
were  pals — agreed. 

"It's  a  sin  an'  a  shame !"  she  declared.  "Carry  cud 
be  earnin'  her  little  old  twenty-five  tuh  fifty  per,  as 
well  as  not.  Gwan  an'  coach  her,  May.  It'll  be  a 
joke  on  Sam." 

The  teaching  began,  and  Caroline  displayed  a  shape 
and  talent  which  neither  of  the  older  ladies  had 
suspected. 

The  "Jolly  Masqueraders"  were  short  of  girls.  Gus 
Deeves,  the  manager,  had  his  old  room  at  the  boarding 
house,  and  his  old  friend  May  told,  him  of  her  little 
protegee. 

"Thirty  a  week,  my  dear  boy,  from  the  start,  an' 
she's  wuth  it,"  said  she. 

"Too  much,"  said  Mr.  Deeves.  "Hully  gee,  I  kin 
git  principals  for  that !  Is  she  good  lookin'  ?" 

When  he  saw  Caroline  he  chortled  with  managerial 
joy.  "She's  a  peach — a  dream,"  said  he,  delightedly. 
"I'm  gettin'  away  from  old  burlesque  methods.  The 
little,  pretty  ones  fur  me — them  big  battleaxes  has  had 
their  day.  I  want  clever  people.  Gimme  four  more 
like  her,  an'  a  good  comedian,  and  I'll  take  my  show 
on  Broadway." 

Between  them  they  engineered  Caroline's  debut, 
under  the  name  of  Hortense  de  Trouville.  Sam's 
show  returned  and  took  the  road  again,  with  Sam 
sending  a  fat  letter  every  day.  Caroline's  were  thin 
ones — two  shows  a  day  keep  one  busy. 

In  seven  weeks  she  held  up  the  end  of  the  line,  and 

12 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

could  count  the  house  as  quickly  as  the  show's  treas- 
urer. Then  Sam's  show  went  to  pieces  out  in  Omaha, 
and  he  came  East  without  wiring-  Caroline. 

To  Mrs.  de  Shine,  who  loved  mysteries,  had  been 
confined  the  task  of  remailing-  letters  from  Caroline 
while  her  show  was  out  on  the  Eastern  wheel. 

The  Monday  on  which  Sam  returned,  the  Deeves 
show  opened  at  the  Circle,  in  dear  old  New  York. 

When  he  burst  in,  eager  to  see  Caroline,  Mrs.  de 
Shine  said  she'd  soon  t>e  back.  Sam,  to  kill  time, 
chased  uptown  to  the  Circle  to  see  his  old  friend 
Deeves. 

"Are  you  working?"  queried  the  latter  excitedly. 
"Gee,  it's  luck  if  you  ain't!  Just  lost  my  musical  di- 
rector; he  quits  Satiddy.  Take  the  job  and  I'll  throw 
him  out  to-day!  Fifty  a  week!  You  can  jump  in 
and  do  it  easy !" 

"Sixty-five,"  said  Sam,  firmly. 

"Aw,  come  off;  that's  a  Broadway  salary,  bo,"  be- 
gan Mr.  Deeves.  "Quit  kiddin'." 

"Sixty-five,"  repeated  Sam. 

"Well  darn  my  hide,  I  guess  I  am  off  my  nut,  but 
I'm  going  to  take  you !  There  ain't  anything  too  good 
fur  my  show.  And  we'll  sign  a  contract  in  a  minute. 
That's  the  way  I  do  business.  Quick,  and  no  shilly- 
shally. Give  us  your  mitt !  Wait'll  you  see  my  six 
new  women.  Elegant!" 

They  sat  in  a  stage  box  as  the  beauties  tripped  out 
in  the  first  part.  Mr.  Deeves  smiled  as  he  gazed  at  the 
lovely  little  creature  in  white  tights  and  gold-braided 
jacket  at  one  end.  And  he  squinted  at  Sam  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  At  last  Sam  looked  the  vision  over. 
He  seemed  to  be  ill. 

"I  think  I'm  losing  my  head,  Gus,"  he  said,  faintly. 

"But  that  one  there — the  white  one — she  looks" 

He  stopped,  learning  weakly  against  his  new  boss. 

"Yes?"  said  Deeves,  with  a  chuckle,  and  he  gave 
the  white  lady  the  high  sign.  It  so  disconcerted  her 

13 


THE  HONEYMOON  OF  SAM  AND  CAROLINE. 

that  she  sang  all  out  of  key,  and  missed  six  steps,  then 
she  fled  to  the  first  entrance. 

"It — it  can't  be  Caroline,"  muttered  Sam,  hoarsely. 

"Better  go  in  back  and  find  out,"  said  Mr.  Deeves, 
grinning.  "And  what's  the  odds?  Won't  you  be  on 
the  road  together?  She  gets  a  speaking  part  to-mor- 
row." 

Sam  stood  up.  "I  can't  realize  it — it's  awful!"  he 
said. 

"Drawin'  two  salaries  ain't  awful,"  observed  Mr. 
Deeves,  practically.  "It  was  a  cinch  she'd  bust  in  the 
business,  anyway.  They  all  do.  And  I'm  going  to 
buy  you  a  swell  supper  to-night,  too.  That's  the  kind 
of  guy  I  am.  Why  that  little  trick's  the  life  of  the 
show!" 

Sam  thought  rapidly.  "I  do  believe  it's  the  best 
thing  after  *all,"  said  he.  "And,  besides,  I'll  know 
where  she  is." 

"You  bet,"  returned  Mr.  Deeves,  wisely.  "That's 
the  answer." 


The  Disastrous  Bookmaking  of 
Red-Cheeked  Rudolph. 

RUDOLPH  SPIEGEL  was  a  fine,  big  German  boy.  He 
worked  in  the  Herr  Oberdorfer's  delicatessen  shop,  on 
Avenue  A,  and  young  ladies  came  from  blocks  away  to 
be  waited  upon  by  Rudolph  of  the  whitey  hair  and  red 
cheeks. 

He  could  slice  ham  to  a  paper  thinness,  and  dill  pickles 
and  sour,  spiced  Holland  fish  tasted  better  when  Rudolph 
shoveled  them  into  the  wooden  dishes,  savoring  the  sale 
with  a  cheerful  grin  and  a  kind  word.  When  business 
was  slack  the  Herr  sat  upon  a  pickle  barrel  and  read  the 
evening  paper.  Rudolph  could  not  read  English  well, 
but  he  sometimes  glanced  at  the  pictures.  They  were  not 
so  amusing  as  the  Annaberg  Blatter,  which  came  out  at 
home  on  a  Saturday,  with  fine  colored  pictures. 

One  day  a  young  man  called  upon  the  Herr  Oberdorfer. 
'You  like  buy  someding,  ja,  plees?"  asked  Rudolph. 

"Wanter  see  the  boss  !"  replied  the  visitor  gruffly.  The 
Herr  was  weighing  corn  beef  for  a  lady.  He  was  fat 
and  deliberate  in  his  movements,  and  hurried  for  no  man. 
But  when  he  saw  the  young  man  he  left  the  beef  for 
Rudolph  to  tie  up  and  greeted  the  man  excitedly. 

"Well,  she's  in  to-morrow,"  said  the  young  man  impor- 
tantly. Rudolph  listened,  and  he  was  shocked,  for  the 
Herr  had  a  frau,  and  it  was  clearly  another  she  to  which 
the  man  referred. 

"So!  That  is  good— fine!"  replied  the  Herr.  "You 
think  she  win  sure?  Remember,  one  time  you  say  dot 
same  ting,  und  it  don't  come  in." 


BOOKMAKING   OF   RED-CHEEKED   RUDOLPH. 

"It's  a  pipe,"  said  the  young  man  solemnly.  "It's  al- 
ready in.  This  one'll  be  200  to  I,  and  she'll  breeze  in  on 
the  bit.  You  put  a  good  bet  down,  and  I'll  be  in  to-mor- 
row after  the  race  for  my  bit.  S'long." 

The  Frau  Oberdorfer  was  coming  from  the  back  of  the 
store.  "Rudolph,  quiet — she  must  not  know  I  bet  on  the 
races,"  whispered  the  boss. 

Rudolph  nodded.  So  it  was  a  horse  ?  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  betting,  but  the  boss  had  money,  and  if  he  wished 
to  gamble  it  was  his  affair.  The  next  day  about  2  o'clock 
the  Herr  seemed  uneasy.  The  Frau  usually  took  a  nap  at 
this  hour,  but  to-day  she  was  not  sleepy. 

She  was  making  the  boss  take  down  and  rearrange  all 
the  cans  and  boxes.  He  got  a  chance  for  a  private  word 
with  Rudolph  at  last.  "You  know  McNulty's  saloon, 
ja?"  he  asked,  putting  some  bills  into  Rudolph's  hand. 
"And  the  man  who  buys  tongue  sandwiches  every  night, 
with  the  black  mustache  ?  Ja,  you  know.  You  go  to  him, 
say  I  wish  to  bet  upon  Shy  Ellen,  in  the  third  at  New  Or- 
leans, forty  dollars  straight.  You  see  ?" 

Rudolph  was  already  shedding  his  white  apron,  and 
thrusting  his  large  red  hands  into  his  mittens.  The 
Herr  said  it  over  again  in  German,  and  Rudolph  said  he 
understood.  After  he  had  gone  the  Frau  insisted  on 
learning  what  the  whispering  had  been  about,  and  she 
wormed  it  out  of  her  husband. 

But  she  displayed  none  of  the  expected  rage.  Instead 
she  showed  a  sporting  instinct,  and  became  wildly  excited. 
They  would  send  little  Herman  to  college,  and  she  would 
have  a  diamond  ring  with  all  that  money.  The  Herr  was 
delighted  with  her  spirit.  Eagerly  they  waited  for  Ru- 
dolph to  come  back  with  the  winnings. 

The  young  man  stopped  in  at  4 130.  "It  won !"  he  ex- 
claimed, exultingly.  "I'll  be  back  later."  The  Herr 
jumped  up  and  down  and  the  Frau  gave  an  extra  pickled 
herring  to  the  pound  she  was  measuring  for  a  customer. 
What  a  fine  land  was  America ! !  And  where  was  Ru- 
dolph? 

16 


BOOKMAKING   OF   RED-CHEEKED   RUDOLPH. 
The  Herr  said  he  would  go  and  find  the  foolish  boy. 


As  Rudolph  was  rushing  into  McNulty's,  where  the 
handbook  man  was,  Wilhelmina  Dummeldinger  stopped 
him.  Wilhelmina  and  Rudolph  were  to  wed  when  they 
had  enough  in  their  joint  "plant"  to  furnish  a  nice  flat. 

Rudolph  showed  her  the  forty  dollars.  "I  go  to  upon 
the  race  make  bet,  dear  heart,"  said  he,  fondly,  "and  when 
I  oudt  come  yet  I  shall  the  much  money  have."  He  ex- 
plained his  mission. 

Wilhelmina  had  been  born  on  Avenue  A,  and  she  read 
the  dope  like  all  up-to-date  persons.  Her  brother  Heinie 
went  every  day  to  the  poolroom,  and  in  summer  to  the 
racetrack.  "What  ?  A  long  shot  like  that  win  ?"  she  quer- 
ied, contempeuously.  "He  has  no  chance.  Wait — let  me 
see." 

She  drew  out  a  paper,  on  which  was  the  result  of  Broth- 
er Heinie's  own  successful  system.  It  had  bought  the  tur- 
quoise earrings  and  the  garnet  breastpin  she  wore. 

It  showed  Shy  Ellen  to  be  a  rank  outsider.  There  was 
no  dope  on  her,  because  she  couldn't  run  in  the  mud,  and 
to-day's  paper  said  the  track  was  heavy. 

Amazed  at  her  marvelous  knowledge,  Rudolph  listened 
as  she  advised  him.  "For  fifty,  four,  five  rooms  are  fur- 
nished grand,"  said  she,  wisely.  "Here  is  where  we 
make  a  book.  This  one  has  no  chance,  an'  he  has  been 
tipped  foolish.  We  simply  hold  it  out.  She  can't  win." 

Rudolph  was  rather  frightened,  but  Wilhelmina  soothed 
him.  He  didn't  know  that  to  really  make  a  book  success- 
fully a  bankroll  is  necessary. 

At  the  proper  time  she  bade  him  go  inside  and  inquire 
who  won.  "Shy  Ellen,"  said  the  barkeeper,  and  he  won- 
dered what  was  the  matter  with  the  Dutchman. 


It  was  late  at  night  when  Rudolph  sneaked  into  the 
shop.  What  followed  was  too  painful  to  relate.  Ru- 
dolph, the  bond  slave,  is  still  working  out  his  debt  over 

17 


BOOKMAKING   OF   RED-CHEEKED   RUDOLPH. 

on  Avenue  A.  Mountains  of  ham  and  tons  of  herring 
has  he  sliced  and  ladled  out.  He  gets  no  wages,  only  his 
board  and  room,  and  Wilhelmina  has  a  new  fellow.  Over 
the  sea  lies  Germany  and  peace.  But  Rudolph  will  never 
get  back.  He  owes  too  much. 


Emma,  the  Slavey,  Makes  Good 
in  Vaudeville. 

EMMA,  the  slavey,  was  setting  the  table  for  dinner  in 
the  actors'  boarding  house.  Just  as  honest  hearts  beat 
'neath  ragged  jackets,  so  does  art  burst  forth  in  strange 
environment, 

Emma,  the  slovenly  young  female  who  waited  upon 
the  guests  of  Mrs.  de  Shine,  had  a  musical  nature,  and 
she  burned  with  a  wild  desire  to  go  upon  the  stage,  but 
none  guessed  her  secret. 

As  she  lazily  distributed  the  plates  and  table  jewelry, 
Emma  beat  out  a  tune  upon  them  with  a  fork.  "Rufus, 
Rastus  John-san  Br-hown,"  she  hummed  through  her 
nose,  "w'ot  you  gwine  to  do  when  the  rent  co-homes 
r-hound?" 

It  sounded  well.  Pleased,  she  sang  the  chorus  of  this 
gem  loudly,  ceasing  work  entirely,  in  order  to  fully  enjoy 
it.  There  is  nothing  like  music. 

The  door  behind  her  opened  softly  as  Johnny  McDuff 
came  in. 

"Evenin',  Emma,"  he  said,  amiably.  Emma  stopped 
caroling. 

"Lawsy,  Mr.  McDuff,  you  gimme  a  start!"  she  ex- 
claimed, spreading  a  soiled  hand  over  what  was  supposed- 
ly the  region  of  her  panting  heart.  "Gee!  I'm  shakin' 
yet!  The  bell  ain't  rang,  an'  Mis'  de  Shine  says  you 
gents  gotta  keep  out  till  it  does." 

"That's  all  right,  Emmar,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Mc- 
Duff, easily.  "I  seen  the  butcher  boy  bringin'  in  chickens 
to-day,  an'  I'm  Johnny  at  the  rathole  to-night  fur  some 
of  the  white  meat,  see  ?  I  didn't  git  nothin'  but  the  bone 
of  a  laig  last  time.  What  is  they  fur  desert  ?" 

19 


EMiMA,  THE   SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

"Appil  and  leming  pie — but  take  the  leming,  'cause  the 
appil  is  bum,"  said  Emma,  candidly.  "She  told  me  not 
tuh  tell,  but  I  will." 

"You're  a  darned  good  fellar,  Emmar,"  declared  Mr. 
McDuff,  heartily.  "G'wan  with  your  work.  I'll  set  here 
quiet,  long's  I've  beat  that  mob  in  the  hall  in.  It's  snow- 
in'  outside." 

Emma  placed  mounds  of  bread  and  dishes  of  sad  look- 
ing pickles  about  the  table.  She  beat  out  another  tune 
with  a  stray  knife  as  she  arranged  these  articles. 

Mr.  McDuff  gazed  at  the  flyspecked  red  handbills  from 
London  music  halls,  which  decorated  one  side  of  the  room. 
On  them  flared  the  names  of  various  American  vaudeville 
teams  who  lived  when  in  New  York  at  the  Maison  de 
Shine.  On  the  dusty  mantel  stood  a  row  of  photographs 
of  ancient  and  modern  variety  performers,  inscribed  with 
the  names  of  the  originals  in  faded  ink, 

He  had  seen  these  ornaments  many  a  time  before,  and 
they  did  not  interest  him.  Suddenly  Mr.  McDuff  turned 
and  looked  searchingly  at  Emma,  who  was  gracefully 
ladling  out  pickled  beets  for  the  coming  feast.  He  seemed 
to  be  struggling  with  an  idea.  At  last  he  sighed  as  if  re- 
lieved, and  when  Emma's  substantial  form  squeezed  past 
him — the  dining  room  was  of  cramped  proportions — he 
delivered  a  playful  blow  upon  her  husky  arm. 

"You're  a  dem  nice  gal — and  that's  no  dream,  kiddo," 
he  remarked. 

Emma  flashed  one  coy  glance  upon  him. 

"Quit,  now!"  she  cried,  coquettishly.  "She's  ringin' 
the  bell !  Here  they  come !" 

Mr.  McDuff  sank  hastily  into  his  chair,  tucked  a  nap- 
kin into  the  top  of  his  waistcoat  in  businesslike  fashion, 
and  laughed  mockingly  at  the  fat  comedian  who  had 
hustled  in  before  the  rest,  expecting  the  end  seat  which 
Mr.  McDuff  occupied. 

"Git  a  move  on,  Emmar!  The  'Only  a  Child  Wife' 
numba  two  comp'ny's  jest  come  in,  an'  the  folks  '11  have 
to  make  room  fur  eight  more  somehow ;  they're  playin'  in 
Harlem  an'  gotta  eat  early." 

20 


EMMA,   THE  SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

It  was  Mrs.  de  Shine,  the  boss,  who  spoke. 

The  Property  Man  ventured  an  objection. 

"They  ain't  no  more  room  here,"  he  said,  irritably. 
"My  elbows  is  wore  raw  now  tryin'  to  eat  in  this  crowd. 
I  won't  move  no  more,  and  that  goes." 

"Well,  them  people  is  comin'  in,  Mista  Johnson,"  said 
the  boss,  firmly,  "an'  ef  yuh  don't  like  it,  yuh  kin  lump  it ! 
I'm  runnin'  this  house,  an'  they  can't  nobody  start  nothin' 
with  me.  Move  up,  or  vamp — see  ?" 

The  Property  Man  proceeded  to  hunch  his  chair  tow- 
ard the  end  of  the  table,  muttering  sullenly,  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  melodrama  production  trooped  in. 

"Emmair,  when  yuh've  helped  with  the  dishes,  give  Fido 
his  bath  an'  rub  in  his  flea  powder  when  he's  dry/'  com- 
manded the  boss  when  the  boarders  had  begun  active 
work  upon  their  food.  "An'  tell  that  song  an'  dance  team 
in  42  I  want  their  board.  They  needn't  think  they  kin 
stall  me  off." 

"Yuh  said  I  could  git  off  tuh-night,"  objected  Emma. 

Mr.  McDuff  overheard  her  and  he  noted  her  mutinous 
expression. 

"That  poor  gal's  worked  to  death,"  he  observed  to  his 
neighbor,  the  juggler. 

"She's  a  mut,"  returned  the  latter.  "Our  room's  kep' 
fierce.  I'm  goin'  to  stop  summers  else  next  time  we  play 
Noo  York,  if  this  joint  don't  get  no  better." 

Mr.  McDuff  did  not  reply.  But  as  he  passed  out,  he 
smiled  upon  Emma,  who  mustered  a  creditable  redness 
upon  her  rather  muddy  cheek.  She  had  a  mash ! 


Mr.  McDuff  sat  in  his  small  top  floor  room,  his  feet  on 
the  bed,  smoking  a  bad  cigar  and  looking  into  the  future. 
It  was  only  8:30,  yet  his  work  for  the  day  was  over,  but 
this  fact  angered  rather  than  pleased  him,  for  he  was  in 
vaudeville,  and  a  "three-a-day." 

This  week  he  went  on  immediately  after  the  pictures  at 
the  first  show,  obliged  again  (in  the  "supper  show")  at 
5  :i2,  and  did  his  final  turn  at  7:23.  It  was  an  altogether 

21 


EMMA,   THE   SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

humiliating  engagement,  and  yet  he  was  lucky  to  have 
booked  the  week  at  all. 

Mr.  McDuff  worked  "single"  and  had  a  musical  act. 
He  sang  a  couple  of  parodies,  did  a  bit  of  comedy,  a  buck 
dance,  and  played  upon  the  cornet,  saxaphone,  and,  of 
course,  the  xylophone,  that  long-suffering  instrument.  It 
makes  a  good  front,  with  a  natty  velvet  table  cover  under 
it,  and  our  very  best  musical  acts  use  it.  The  matter  of 
playing  upon  it  skilfully  is  unimportant.  You  must  dress 
your  act. 

Mr.  McDuff  had  removed  his  shoes,  collar  and  tie,  and 
coat,  carefully  settling  the  coat  over  a  chair  and  washing 
off  a  spot  on  the  collar  hopefully.  Laundry  work  costs 
money,  and  he  owned  but  two  suits — a  stage  costume  and 
this  one.  He  now  riveted  a  gloomy  look  upon  his  big  toe, 
which  protruded  from  a  distressingly  large  hole  in  his  blue 
sock. 

"That's  the  way  it  goes !"  he  thought,  bitterly.  "I  ain't 
got  no  one  to  mend  my  socks,  nor  notnin'.  I  ain't  a  hit 
with  the  wimmen,  an'  I  dunno  why.  I  ain't  a  souse.  The 
hull  thing's  this:  The  agents  won't  book  a  single  turn 
an'  pay  any  money  for  it.  Ef  I  had  a  good  swell  gal  for 
a  podner  I'd  be  headlinin'  the  bills.  Now  I  jest  wonder 
if  that  Emmar  could  be  licked  into  shape  ? 

"She  wouldn't  have  to  do  much,  an'  it'd  be  better'n 
hookin'  up  with  one  of  these  wise  dames  who  want  to  run 
the  act.  Put  a  good  dress  on  her,  an'  they'd  be  a  big  dif- 
ference. She's  awful  sloppy,  though,  now." 

The  humble  servant  of  the  Maison  de  Shine  might  yet 
hand  the  ice  pitcher  to  the  proud  stage  ladies  who  de- 
manded her  services  on  every  trivial  pretext — and  never 
tipped  her !  Who  can  tell  what  lies  before  us  ? 


Emma,  the  slavey,  sat  in  the  fortune  teller's  parlor.  An 
odor  of  dead  and  gone  dinners,  mingled  with  a  more  re- 
cent and  stronger  fragrance  of  the  healthful  cabbage,  made 
the  place  seem  homelike. 

The  fortune  teller  had  hastily  assumed  a  black  kimono, 

22 


EM-MA,   THE   SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

sprinkled  with  moons  and  half-moons,  symbols,  possibly, 
of  her  mysterious  calling;  or,  again,  the  garment  may 
have  simply  been  a  lucky  bargain. 

She  held  Emma's  ample  hand  loosely,  speaking  in  a 
low,  dramatic  voice: 

"I  could  tell  you  more  for  another  quarter,  of  course," 
she  observed,  regretfully.  "There  is  more — a  lot  more. 
And  you  must  beware  of  a  dark  woman." 

Emma  dug  for  the  quarter.  She  knew  well  enough  the 
identity  of  the  dark  woman.  Mrs.  de  Shine's  hair,  when 
the  peroxide  needed  renewing,  was  black  at  the  roots. 

"Is  they  any  chanct  of  me  goin'  on  the  stage  ?"  she  in- 
quired, anxiously,  "and — and  the  love  part — he's  a  fair 
gent." 

The  seeress  regarded  Emma's  hand  searchingly,  after 
she  had  nailed  the  hard  earned  quarter  of  the  working  girl. 

"Strange — strange,"  she  mused.  "I  see  lights,  and 
music,  many  people  clapping  their  hands — and  gold  !  You 
have  a  wonderful  future,  my  dear.  People  are  fighting  to 
get  at  you,  for  you  will  be  a  great  singer." 

Emma's  face  was  wistful.  "I  never  was  much  at  sing- 
in',"  she  said,  doubtfully.  "Dancin's  what  I'm  crazy 
about." 

The  fortune  teller  looked  at  the  palm  again.  "It  is  danc- 
ing," she  said,  earnestly,  "and  here — on  this  line — I  see 
you  with  a  fair  man  who  loves  you  very  much.  And  a 
child.  You  will  cross  water  and  make  a  long  journey. 

"Does  he  love  me?"  queried  Emma,  bashfully.  She 
was  settling  for  this,  and  might  as  well  learn  as  much  as 
possible. 

"He  does.  You  will  receive  a  letter  from  him  to-mor- 
row." 

Oh !  joy,  and  likewise,  bliss.  Emma  fared  forth  into 
the  night,  back  to  the  dingy  boarding  house,  clacking,  even 
now,  in  fancy,  through  the  finest  buck  dance  ever  seen  in 
vaudeville.  Emma  yearned  not  for  the  gauzy  skirts  and 
fleshings  of  the  ballet,  or  the  flimsy  draperies  of  the  fire- 
dancing  ladies,  but  to  cop  out  the  championship  as  the 
best  wooden  shoe  dancer  in  the  continuous. 

23 


EMMA,   THE   SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

No  wonder  filled  her  pleasantly  disturbed  mind  as  to 
the  means  of  soaring  to  this  pinnacle.  The  fortune  teller 
had  seen  it  in  the  hand.  It  was  enough. 

She  replied  amiably  to  the  merry,  if  none  too  fresh,  jests 
which  greeted  her  as  she  passed  through  the  hall,  where 
male  performers  home  from  work  or  "resting"  this  week, 
loafed  and  held  argument  with  one  another. 

Passing  into  the  dining  room,  Emma  prepared  for  slum- 
ber. Her  bed  was  on  the  dining  table,  on  which  was 
placed  a  narrow  mattress  and  some  bedding.  Thus  did 
the  crafty  Mrs.  de  Shine  utilize  all  possible  space  in  her 
refined  home  for  the  profession. 


The  next  night  at  dinner  Mr.  McDuff,  when  he  had 
spotted  Emma,  whistled  softly  in  astonishment.  She 
sported  a  red  ribbon  about  her  neck,  and  a  clean  gown. 
And  where  once  none  had  known  where  her  waist  began 
or  left  off,  Emma's  form  showed  a  certain  smart  curving 
in  at  the  waist  line,  which  only  a  straight  front  corset 
could  produce. 

Her  Sunday  stays  would  not  permit  of  the  absolute 
freedom  of  movement  which  Mr.  McDuff  called  "sloppy," 
but  she  was  repaid  for  this  by  the  approving  glance  which 
the  "fair  man" — he  had  light  hair,  and  it  needed  cutting — 
cast  in  the  direction  of  the  waist. 

Emma  fed  the  hungry,  meekly  endured  the  shrill  com- 
mands of  the  boss  and  the  attentions  of  Fido  the  poodle, 
a  little  brute  which  joyed  in  biting  persons  upon  the  ankle 

"Hey,  Emmar!  Take  it  on  the  run  to  the  kitchen  an1 
git  me  s'more  meat !"  ordered  the  acrobat,  with  his  accus- 
tomed inelegance,  and  Emma,  the  flicker  of  a  scornful 
smile  upon  her  face,  obeyed.  It  was  not  for  long. 

And  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  McDuff  new  thoughts  bumped 
against  each  other.  She  had  a  figure,  after  all.  A  front 
and  switch  of  goodly  proportions  would  make  beautiful 
her  head  of  scanty,  ill  kept  locks.  A  front !  She  needed 
but  that  and  some  training.  What  a  funny  world  it  was. 

"Thank  you,  Emmar,"  he  whispered,  kindly,  as  the 

24 


EMMA,   THE   SLAVEY  MAKES   GOOD. 

luscious  and  nourishing  bread  pudding  succeeded  the  beef 
stew. 

The  simple  words  sent  Emma  up  in  the  air,  if  I  may 
use  so  common  an  expression  in  connection  with  so  sweet 
a  romance.  No  one  had  ever  thanked  her  for  anything; 
they  merely  hollered  for  more. 

After  this  Emma  put  on  more  dog  with  each  succeed- 
ing meal.  She  wore  her  best  shoes  and  washed  her  face 
regularly.  But  the  boarders  did  not  notice  the  change. 

They  were  too  much  occupied  in  telling  about  their  acts, 
how  they  had  laughed  in  the  face  of  the  manager  who 
offered  only  a  paltry  $300  a  week,  and  knocking  absent 
friends. 

The  show  business  is  a  grand  little  life. 

In  the  cold,  gray  dawn  of  a  Sunday  morning  which 
somehow  seems  a  bit  more  gray  on  Irving  place,  the  land- 
lady entered  the  dining  room  to  arouse  her  tardy  slave. 

"Git  up,  Emmar !"  she  shouted.  "People  due  on  every 
train  what's  gettin'  in  fur  next  week,  an'  yuh  sleepin'  like 
the  dead !" 

The  dreary  ticking  of  the  Geston  Sisters'  cuckoo  clock, 
left  in  lieu  of  currency  for  two  weeks'  board  the  month 
before,  replied,  but  the  hoarse,  protesting  mumble  of  Em- 
ma would  never  issue  from  her  hard  couch  more — not  if 
Emma  kept  her  health  and  did  well. 

She  had  gone.  Investigation  showed  it,  and  Mrs.  de 
Shine  received  the  incoming  vaudeville  drama  and  bur- 
lesque hordes  alone,  but  with  the  grace  which  has  made 
her  name  famous  in  the  profession. 

"Whadda  yuh  thinka  that  ungrateful  hussy?"  she  said, 
to  Railey  &  Boston,  the  acrobatic  team,  just  in  off  the  big 
circuit.  These  gentlemen  were  privileged,  and  they  sat  in 
the  busy  kitchen  as  Mrs.  de  Shine  told  her  troubles. 

"What  made  her  quit,  Maggie?"  inquired  Mr.  Boston, 
meditatively  nibbling  at  a  doughnut. 

"Heaving  knows,  Freddie !"  declared  Mrs.  de  Shine. 
"She  had  all  heart  c'ud  a'  wisht  fur  an'  treated  like  a 
queen.  But  them  common  trash  is  all  the  same.  I  don't 
wish  her  no  harm,  but  I  suttenly  do  hope  she  breaks  a  laig. 

25 


EMMA,  THE  SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

An'  Johnny  McDuff's  mushed  without  puttin'  sumpin'  in 
my  mitt,  too.  I  ain't  got  nothin'  but  worry,  an'  yet  Fm 
a  good  fella,  an'  treat  everybody  good.  My  heart's  the 
biggest  part  of  me." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Railey.  "Kin  you  lemme 
take  a  couple  o'  bucks  till  Satiddy?  We  gets  here  kind 
of  short." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  I  kin,"  said  Mrs.  de  Shine,  thoughtfully, 
and  she  brought  up  from  her  stocking  a  huge  roll,  from 
which  she  peeled  the  price  of  her  audience's  attention.  It 
is  hard  when  one  must  pay  them. 

And  where  was  Emma  ?    Alas !  where  ? 
*     *     * 

It  was  about  twelve  months  later,  and  the  boarders  were 
gathered  about  the  bountiful  board  of  the  Maison  de 
Shine.  Jimmy  Owens,  leader  of  the  Gay  Parisian  Milli- 
ners Burlesquers,  addressed  the  burlesque  manager. 

"You  were  looking  for  a  swell  act  for  next  season," 
said  he.  "Well,  George,  here's  one.  Slammem  &  Bunk, 
man  an'  woman  it  is,  an'  a  fella  was  tellin'  me  they're  the 
greatest  act  in  the  business.  Do  a  xylophone  duet  that's 
a  winner,  an'  play  a  bunch  of  things.  If  we  had  a  good 
act  to  head  the  olio,  an'  this  guy  said  they  could  play  parts, 
it'd  be  worth  while  givin'  that  bum  quartette  we  got  the 
boost.  They're  fierce." 

The  manager  laughed.  "You  don't  want  much,  Jim," 
he  replied.  "I  know  who  them  people  are.  Three  hun- 
dred a  week,  that's  all  they  git.  I  kin  keep  the  quartette 
for  $125." 

Conversation  turned  upon  this  high  salaried  turn. 

"Well,  they  dress  it  swell,  with  gold  plated  instruments 
and  her  in  evenin'  clothes  and  a  bunch  of  ice  on  her  hands, 
and  of  course  it  goes  big,"  remarked  the  Coon  Shouter, 
enviously.  "Gimme  a  bunch  of  coin,  and  put  me  in  the 
houses  they  play,  and  I'll  be  there,  too." 

"They're  both  good  musicians,"  objected  the  Property 
Man.  "Our  stage  manager  ketched  'em  in  Boston,  an' 
he  told  the  old  man  about  it.  They're  booked  to  our  house 
next  week." 

26 


EMMA,   THE   SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

"Toppin'  the  bill,  eh?"  sighed  Vera  Slasher,  who  with 
the  aid  of  her  Pickaninnies  is  the  big  screech  of  so  many 
programmes.  "Well,  ytih  gotta  have  pull  tuh  do  it.  Ef 
I  cud  git  the  agents  tuh  lemme  put  on  my  new  act,  I'd 
cop  the  change,  too,  but  ef  yuh  can't  hand  them  robbers 
a  ten-spot  every  trip  yuh  ast  fur  time,  they  won't  give 
yuh  a  pleasant  look." 

"I  was  up  tuh  Morris',  an'  seen  some  of  Slammen  & 
Bunk's  time.  Booked  solid  tuh  May,  an'  then  the  Moss- 
Stall  tour,  an'  eight  weeks  in  London,"  said  the  Novelty 
Juggler.  "I  dunno  how  they  do  it.  You  can't  git  no 
chanct  here  with  an  act  like  mine.  It's  over  their  heads, 
anyway.  Whatever  become  of  the  gal  what  ust  tuh  wait 
on  table  ?  I  furgit  her  name." 

"Emmar,"  replied  the  Property  Man.  "I  dunno  where 
she  blowed  to.  I'd  like  a  cuppa  cawfee." 

The  landladly,  unchanged,  except  that  she  wore  a  new 
blonde  "front,"  smartly  arranged  because  she  was  going 
out  later,  entered,  waving  a  telegram. 

"Listen,  here,"  she  began,  vivaciously,  and  read :  "Hold 
two  best  rooms,  first  floor  front;  also  rooms  for  maid, 
valet  and  property  man.  Arrive  to-morrow.  Slammer  & 
Bunk,  Poli's,  Hartford.'  " 

"We  was  just  talking  about  'em,"  observed  Mr.  Owens, 
interestedly.  "Maid  and  valet !  Hully  gee  !  but  musical 
acts  are  getting  uppity.  It's  the  only  way  to  live,  though." 
This  was  unfortunate,  for  it  gave  Mrs.  Owens  an  oppor- 
tunity to  be  heard. 

"If  you'd  quit  playin'  the  horses,  we  might  be  summon, 
too !"  she  said,  acidly,  and  Mr.  Owens  said  no  more. 

"Well,  them  knockers  what  said  I  was  hittin'  the  to- 
boggan better  make  a  new  book,"  said  the  boss,  happily. 
"I  guess  it's  poor  when  them  kind  of  folks  stops  here. 
Susy !  Git  them  curtains  up  in  them  rooms  an'  put  three 
towels  in  there.  I'll  show  'em  the  Waldoff  ain't  got 
nothin'  on  Maggie  de  Shine.  How's  the  mince  pie,  folks  ? 
It  was  made  tuh  home,  here,  an'  it  oughta  be  grand.  They's 
real  raisins  in  it." 

27 


EMiMA,   THE  SLAVEY   MAKES   GOOD. 

She  went  off  to  prepare  for  the  reception  of  the  coming 
guests. 

It  was  in  the  bright  sunlight  of  a  Sunday  morning  that 
Slammen  &  Bunk  came  back  to  dear  old  Fourteenth  street. 
It  was  still  there.  On  the  corners  stood  the  same  actor 
gentlemen,  prattling  of  their  affairs,  and  as  the  cab  which 
held  these  classy  vaudevillians  clattered  around  the  corner 
into  Irving  place  a  man  came  out  of  a  saloon  with  a  bucket 
filled  with  frothy  liquid  and  walked  up  the  street. 

Mrs.  Slammen — Miss  Evangeline  Bunk  in  public  life, 
player  of  the  largest  saxophone  the  world  has  ever 
known — looked  out  delightedly. 

"It  ain't  changed  a  mite,  Johnny,"  she  said,  waving  a 
hand  heavy  with  jewels.  "Pipe  the  geezer  rushin'  the 
duck?  Dear  old  Noo  York!  Well,  we're  gettin'  back 
with  bells  on!" 

"I  guess  our  wardrobes'll  make  them  mutts  set  up  an' 
take  notice,"  replied  her  husband,  settling  an  inch  of 
sparkling  diamond  horseshoe  more  surely  in  his  well  tied 
four-in-hand.  "I  don't  mind  spendin'  a  week's  salary 
makin'  a  front,  either.  We  kin  make  it  up  later." 

"D'yuh  'member  the  forchun  teller  said  I  was  goin'  to 
cross  water?"  demanded  Mrs.  Slammen,  animatedly,  "an' 
here  we're  goin'  to  Yurup.  Them  wimmen  knows.  We're 
here." 

The  act's  property  man,  drilled  for  the  occasion,  hopped 
down  from  the  box,  assisting  his  employers  to  alight.  The 
maid  and  valet  drove  up  in  another  cab.  Inside  the  act- 
ors' boarding  house  the  noses  of  a  dozen  curious  guests 
were  pressed  against  the  windows.  The  big  act  had  ar- 
rived. 

Mrs.  de  Shine  herself  rushed  out  upon  the  steps.  "Come 
right  in,  the  rooms  is  ready,  an'  so's  lunch,"  she  cried. 

The  lady  in  velvet  and  sables  looked  up. 

"EMMAR!"  shrieked  the  boss,  "AND  JOHNNY 
M'DUFF !  Are— are  yuh  Slammen  &  Bunk  ?" 

Mrs.  Slammen  held  out  her  jeweled  hand  cordially. 

"Put  it  there,  old  sport,"  said  she.     "We  are !" 

28 


The    Doings    of   an  Amateur 
Valet. 

TERENCE  MULLIGAN  had  been  working  for  his  new  em- 
ployer ten  days.  When,  upon  awaking  after  a  prolonged 
drunk,  St.  John  Castleton,  all  around  rounder  and  interna- 
tional sport,  found  that  during  the  previous  evening's  gaie- 
ties he  had  hired  Mr.  Mulligan,  from  Avenue  A,  he  was, 
to  say  the  least,  astonished. 

But  Terence,  who  could  drive  a  truck  if  he  couldn't  tell 
an  orchid  from  a  Lawson  pink  when  the  boss  sent  him  to 
the  florist,  had  made  good. 

Castleton'' s  friends  were  wont  to  come  around  and  listen 
to  Terence's  East  Side  accent  with  the  utmost  enjoyment. 
Castleton  found  himself  in  demand  at  dinners,  where  once 
he  had  been  voted  rawther  a  bore,  y'enow,  for  being  rich 
doesn't  always  mean  that  the  wealthy  one  is  clever,  also. 
And  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  accurately  report  the  sayings 
and  weird  doings  of  Terence,  whose  struggles  with  the 
proper  equipment  of  a  gentleman  were  very  comical. 

At  first  it  was  a  bit  annoying  to  have  Terence  persist- 
ently polish  the  boots,  and  then,  scorning  the  use  of  silly 
soap  and  water,  proceed  to  do  battle  with  the  $3,000  black 
pearl  studs  which  went  into  his  master's  evening  shirt. 
But  after  the  roars  of  laughter  from  the  crowd  dining  on 
the  terrace  at  Sherry's,  when  he  rather  ruefully  narrated 
the  startling  fact  that  he'd  actually  been  obliged,  for  the 
first  time  in  years  (he  didn't  mention  that  formerly  he 
knew  how  well  enough,  but  everybody  knows  old  man 
Castleton  wore  a  red  shirt  and  wielded  a  pick  with  the 
other  lucky  ones  out  'Frisco  way  in  early  days,  and 
wouldnt'  have  worn  a  biled  shirt  if  he'd  had  one)  to  get 

29 


THE  DOINGS  OF  AN  AMATEUR  VALET. 

out  a  shirt  minus  the  print  of  Terence's  stubby  fingers, 
and  fix  it  himself,  he  swore  it  was  worth  an  increased 
laundry  bill. 

Terence,  however,  rapidly  soaked  in  knowledge,  and  in 
four  days  the  scandals  of  our  set  were  as  an  open  book  to 
him.  And  for  their  scandals  he  had  as  much  contempt  as 
if  he'd  been  a  regular  valet,  and  not  a  volunteer.  Espe- 
cially did  Terence  glance  with  an  air  of  disfavor  upon  the 
ladies  who  came  to  afternoon  tea  or  to  late  suppers  with 
"the  boss." 

"Aw,  them  skoits  is  dopes,  on  the  dead  level,"  said  Ter- 
ence to  the  gang  in  front  of  Flannery's,  over  on  Avenue 
A,  one  night.  "They  ain't  got  no  git-up-an'-git  tuh  'em. 
Swell  Fift'  Avenoo  babies,  they  is,  too,  an'  when  they's 
comin',  it's  me  tuh  the  jooler's  an'  the  flower  place,  an' 
buy  a  bale  uv  roses  and  theni  t'ings  what'd  keep  youse  a 
mont',  ef  youse  had  the  price !" 

"An'  is  the  dames  all  framed  up  in  decollaty  rags,  like 
the  gals  in  the  boilesque  at  Miner's?"  inquired  Muggsy 
Murphy,  from  the  flour  mill,  with  deep  interest. 

"Hully  chee,  youse'd  t'ink  a  train  o'  cars  is  comin'  when 
they  comes  in  rustlin'  wit'  their  smellers  up  in  the  air!" 
returned  Terence. 

The  gang  listened  respectfully  to  the  traveller  returned 
from  a  strange  world  where  no  one  worked,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  dress,  eat,  drink,  gossip  and  ride  in  autos. 

"Gee,  I  guess  that  guy  y'r  workin'  fur  dunno  where  he'll 
sleep,  wit'  his  roll!"  exclaimed  Mickey  Donohue,  admir- 
ingly, "and  how  many  soots  has  he  ?  Tell  it  again,  I  only 
just  come."  So  Terence  bragged  of  the  one  hundred  suits 
and  the  forty  pairs  of  shoes  and  the  thirty  trunks  of  which 
he  was  the  proud  custodian. 

"An'  what  does  them  blokies  talk  about  when  they're 
havin'  their  chuck  ?"  asked  Mickey.  "Sure,  I'll  bet  fi'pence 
they  wouldn't  dig  intuh  a  plate  uv  ham  an' — in  forty 
years,  eh,  Jerry  ?" 

"Aw,  truffles  an'  allygator  pears  an'  fish  cooked  on 
boards  an'  boids  an'  t'ings  is  what  they  eats,"  said  Terence. 

30 


THE  DOINGS  OF  AN  AMATEUR  VALET. 

"An'  talking — why,  they're  just  like  us  fellies  an'  their 
goils,  kiddin'  an'  lafmr." 

"Ain't  the  boss  got  no  ladi  fren  wit'  all  his  coin?"  came 
from  the  group. 

"Sure !"  returned  Terence.  "An'  she's  a  peach.  Hully 
chee,  I  got  tuh  screw  me  nut !" 

Wildly  he  tore  across  the  street,  swung  aboard  a  passing 
car  and  waved  a  hasty*  good-by  to  his  wondering  pals. 
The  "peach"  was  coming  to  dine  quietly,  and  minus  a 
chaperon,  with  the  boss,  and  Terence  was  slated  for  picket 
duty  during  her  visit.  For  the  peach  had  a  husband,  who 
looked  on  Mr.  Castleton  as  his  very  good  friend  (as,  of 
course,  the  latter  was),  and  it  was  just  possible  that  he 
might  not  approve  of  the  peach  dining  out  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. 

The  peach  was  cautiously  emerging  from  a  cab  as  Ter- 
ence arrived.  He  lingered  to  give  the  telephone  boy  or- 
ders to  allow  no  person  to  come  up,  while  the  elevator 
whisked  the  peach  up  to  the  third  floor. 


"Terence !"  called  the  boss.  "Go  to  the  door  and  stop 
that  ringing!  Mind,  admit  no  one." 

''I'm  hep,"  said  Terence,  briefly,  feeling  in  his  pocket 
for  the  short  billy  which  had  won  him  so  many  scraps 
over  on  "the  Avenoo." 

"Is  Mr.  Castleton  in  ?  I  must  see  him  at  once !"  The 
voice  caused  the  peach  to  stifle  a  scream  with  her  napkin. 
Mr.  Castleton  shivered.  The  peach's  husband  was  a 
handy  lad  in  a  mixup.  What  had  sent  him  here? 

"In  there,  quick !"  he  whispered,  and  the  peach  ducked 
into  the  bedroom.  "My  wife !  She's  here !  I  saw  her 
come  in !"  The  visitor  had  brushed  past  Terence  and 
faced  Castleton. 

"You  lie!"  roared  Castleton,  boldly,  and  then  they 
clinched.  Terence  disappeared. 


There  was  a  frightful,  deafening  report,  which  shook 
the  room. 

31 


THE  DOINGS  OF  AN  AMATEUR  VALET. 

"Explosion!"  howled  Terence  in  their  ears.  ''The 
whole  t'ing's  blowin'  up !  Come  on  for  y'r  lives !"  He 
dragged  at  the  husband,  while  smoke  filled  the  eyes  of  all, 
and  neither  of  the  men  saw  Terence  swiftly  guide  a  vision 
in  pink  past  and  into  the  hall,  whence  the  elevator  shot 
down  the  street  and  safety. 


"Old  man,  I  sincerely  apologize,"  said  the  husband  fif- 
teen minutes  later.  "I  guess  I'm  crazy.  And  now  I'm 
going  home  and  take  my  wife  out  to  square  my  con- 
science." 

"Let  it  go  at  that,"  said  Castleton. 


"What  in  heaven's  name  was  that?"  he  asked,  when 
Terence  appeared  and  reported  that  the  peach  had  fled 
homeward. 

"Fourt'  o'  July,"  said  Terence,  grinning.  "Nawthin' 
but  two  cannon  crackers,  but  they  put  that  guy  on  the  bum 
while  her  nibs  makes  a  gitaway.  What  color  shirt  youse 
want  in  the  mornin'  ?" 


Allen  and  Allen  Split,  But  Come 
Together  Again. 

"WELL,  I  do  declare,  I  ain't  seen  yuh  folks  in  a  coon's 
age !  Susy,  git  numba  forty  ready  fur  the  Allen',  an'' 
git  a  move  on  or  I'll  make  yuh  wisht  yuh  had !  Where 
yuh  been,  Dave?" 

Mrs.  De  Shine,  boss  of  the  Irving  place  boarding 
house,  held  out  a  welcoming  hand  to  both  Dave  and 
Daisy  Allen.  Susy,  the  slavey,  scurried  up  the  stairs, 
jingling  some  keys.  She  assumed  a  more  leisurely 
gait  at  the  second  floor,  where  the  landlady  couldn't 
see  her.  At  the  third  she  sat  upon  the  top  step  and 
gazed  downward  through  the  gloom  of  a  late  Winter 
afternoon.  If  they  came  up  she  could  hear  them. 

Daisy  spoke  first.  The  old  town  sure  looks  good, 
Mis'  De  Shine,"  said  she.  "Well,  we  been  playin'  in 
a  steamboat  show  down  tuh  Noo  Ohleans  an'  we  done 
fine.  Four  shows  a  day,  an'  I  helped  git  up  the  meals 
fur  the  company,  an'  we  lived  on  the  boat.  An,  after 
Mardi  Gras  we  come  East,  cause  the  business  was 
gettin' bum.  Wasn't  it,  Dave?" 

"An'  we  was  lonesome,  not  seein'  no  performers," 
put  in  Dave.  "Well,  we  worked  a  week  in  Looeyville, 
an'  two  in  Saint  Looey,  an'  now  we  got  a  week  here'n 
Noo  York.  I'm  a  good  hustler,  an'  I'll  have  the  act 
booked  up  good  in  no  time." 

"Sure  yuh  will,"  agreed  Mrs.  De  Shine.  "Livin  on 
a  boat!  Ef  that  don't  beat  all!  I  s'pose  you  heard 
that  Bill  an'  Minnie  Cartwrio-ht  quit,  an'  she's  gone 
back  intuh  the  circus  business?  Well,  I  knowed  they 
wudn't  last,  with  his  goin's  on." 

33 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

"An'  they've  split!"  said  Daisy,  in  pleased  wonder. 
"He  was  the  hull  act,  anyway.  An'  she  was  an  awful 
knocker." 

"Say,  you  folks  want  to  gas  a  little,  so  I'll  chase 
down  to  Fourteenth  street  an'  see  the  gang,  git  some 
cigarettes,"  remarked  Dave,  eagerly.  The  ladies  then 
retired  to  Mrs.  De  Shine's  own  bathroom,  where  they 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  tub  and  enjoyed  a  cheerful  gos- 
sip about  all  their  friends  in  the  show  business. 

When  their  hotel  trunk  came,  Daisy  got  the  man 
to  carry  it  upstairs.  Mrs  De  Shine  accompanied  her 
friend  to  the  small  and  inexpensive  room  the  Aliens 
would  occupy,  and  Daisy  got  out  various  programmes 
and  three  sheets  with  their  names  upon  them. 

"Yunn,  I  never  do  git  tired  of  lookin'  at  'em  con- 
fessed the  landlady,  "havin'  onct  been  in  the  purfes- 
sion  myself,  my  dear.  Ah  me,  them  was  happy  days, 
but  a*  course,  fur  makin'  coin,  this  game  has  got  it 
beat  tuh  a  whisper.  S'lectin  is  slow  sometimes,  but 
I  don't  get  stung  very  often." 

It  was  easily  seen  that  the  landlady  was  fond  of 
Daisy,  for  she  made  Susy  fetch  a  pitcher  of  hot  water 
from  the  kitchen,  and  a  piece  of  pie.  "It'll  hearten 
yuh  up  'cause  I  know  yer  all  out,"  she  said,  cordially. 
"Now  go  right  ahead  with  what  yuh  got  to  do.  I 
brung  the  alchol  bottle  an'  a  brush,  an'  I'm  goin'  tuh 
clean  my  dimings." 

Thus  eucouraged.  Daisy  brought  forth  various 
grimy  handkerchiefs  and  soiled  stockings  and  socks, 
and  began  her  modest  laundry  work.  Mrs.  De  Shine 
sat  on  the  floor,  industriously  polishing  a  handsome 
collection  of  gems. 

"My!  They're  swell!"  commented  Daisy,  longingly. 
"Yes,  an'  I'm  prevented  from  showin'  em,  less'n 
I'  m  goin'  out  with  my  fren's  from  uptown,"  said  Mrs. 
De  Shine,  sadly.  "This  here  horseshoe  was  gave  tuh 
me  by  a  sutten  party — he  was  crazy  over  me,  my  dear, 
but  he  hit  the  pipe,  an'  I  simply  had  tuh  give  him 
up.  Yunno  how  them  people  are — an'  I  bought  these 

34 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

here  three  big  rooms  when  I  sold  the  Harlem  boardin' 
house.  It  never  paid  nohow,  'cause  performers  want 
tuh  be  downtown,  an'  I  suttenly  don't  blame  'em.  I'd 
as  soon  be  dead  as  livin'  up  there." 

"But  I  never  seen  you  wear  'em,"  said  Daisy,  wring- 
ing out  a  chemise,  which  she  hung  upon  the  footboard 
of  the  bed  to  dry. 

"Ef  I  did  the  boarders  never  would  settle,"  replied 
Mrs.  De  Shine.  "I  keep  puttin'  up  a  poor  mouth,  an' 
they  think  I  simply  gotta  git  the  coin.  This  under 
yer  hat,  a'  course." 

"Oh,  cert'uly,"  said  Daisy.  The  Aliens  opened  at 
a  continuous  house  next  day  a  Monday,  and  they  must 
be  up  in  time  for  10  o'clock  rehearsal.  Mrs.  De  Shine 
proceeded  softly  downstairs,  hoping  to  pounce  upon 
the  lazy  Susy  loafing.  Susy,  not  aware  that  the  boss 
was  above,  was  leaning  against  the  roor  of  Smithers  & 
Biff's  room,  conversing  gaily. 

These  gentlemen  were  acrobats,  and  they  had  no 
date  to  play  on  this  Sunday  evening.  They  were  kid- 
ding Susy,  whose  thoughts  came  none  too  rapidly  to 
her. 

"Mr.  Biff!"  shouted  the  landlady,  suddenly.  "I 
warned  yuh  onct  before!  Susy  get  down  tuh  that 
kitching  before  I  hand  you  a  wallup  that'll  curl  yer 
hair !  Now  yuh  boys  shut  yer  door  an'  behave !"  she 
added,  as  Susy  went  heavily,  but  quickly  downstairs. 

The  acrobats  promised  to  be  good,  and  Mr.  Smithers 
sprung  a  new  gag  to  pacify  the  boss.  The  New 
Jersey  Comedy  Four  were  peacefully  running  over  a 
new  ballad  in  their  room,  as  she  turned  the  light  down 
until  only  the  faintest  yellow  dot  showed  where  the 
gas  jet  was  located,  and  Jimmy  Thomas  and  his  wife 
were  quarreling,  as  usual,  in  the  first  floor  front.  All 
was  well,  and  Mrs.  De  Shine  went  to  bed. 


The  Aliens  opened  the  show.     Their  turn  followed 
the  "travel  pictures,"  and  they  played  three  shows  a 

35 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

day.  But  they  were  in  New  York,  and  that  was  some- 
thing. On  Monday  afternoon  the  house  was  half-filled 
when  they  came  on,  an  unusual  happening. 

They  took  two  bows,  and  went  so  well  that  the 
manager  put  them  ahead  two  thirty  minutes,  and  gave 
another  act  their  former  humiliating  place.  "Well, 
luck  fur  once,"  said  Dave  to  Daisy,  as  they  dressed  af- 
ter their  short  supper  show  turn.  "Him  gettin'  handed 
a  lemon  in  that  English  act,  puts  us  up.  If  we  keep  on 
like  this,  kiddo,  we'll  get  the  real  swell  bookin'." 

"Yes,  an'  they  was  three  agents  in  front,  too,"  replied 
Daisy,  joyously.  "I'm  glad  I  cleaned  up  my  blue  dress 
an'  white  coat." 

Dave  felt  good.  He  had  worked  well,  and  intro- 
duced a  new  step  into  his  buck  dance.  Perhaps  suc- 
cess was  waiting  for  them,  a  real  success  of  the  sort 
that  meant  a  big  salary,  and  notices  in  the  papers.  He 
was  tired  of  being  an  "also  ran"  in  vaudeville. 

Secretly  he  had  always  thought  that  he  was  the  only 
thing  in  the  act.  Daisy  was  well  enough,  and  she 
looked  quite  pretty,  but  the  few  steps  she  did  were 
only  "fourflush."  She  faked  on  the  cornet  in  their 
musical  finish,  and  he  did  most  of  the  work.  Looking 
the  future  over,  it  wasn't  an  impossibility  for  him  to 
land  in  musical  comedy. 

Daisy  was  very  chatty  and  sociable  as  she  mended 
his  socks  and  neatly  sewed  up  a  rent  in  the  dinner 
jacket  he  wore  on  the  stage  after  the  show  that  night. 
But,  gazing  at  his  talkative  wife  as  she  sat  in  her  fad- 
ed blue  kimono,  her  blondined  hair  looking  most  un- 
lovely done  up  in  curl  papers,  Dave  told  himself  that 
it  was  pretty  tough  for  a  good  man  to  be  tied  down 
to  a  dead  one.  And  Daisy  was  happily  planning  a 
complete  new  wardrobe  for  Dave  if  they  got  a  hoped- 
for  ten-dollar  advance  on  salary  owing  to  the  unexpect- 
ed hit  they  scored ! 

The  Property  Man,  Mrs.  De  Shine's  oldest  boarder, 
liked  Daisy,  but  he  didn't  care  for  Dave.  "That 
guy's  a  slob,"  said  he  to  Sammy  Biff,  the  acrobat. 

36 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

,,The  gal's  all  right,  and  a  nice  little  party  but  he's 
got  the  idee  he's  a  grand  affair.  If  she  wasn't  in  the 
act  to  hold  it  up  he'd  died  at  the  first  show." 

"Him  an'  me  don't  speak,"  returned  Sammy.  He 
didn't  say  that  having  suspected  Dave  of  harboring 
a  secret  cache  of  money,  he  had  endeavored  to  borrow 
five  and  been  replused.  There  was  no  need  of  telling 
all  one  knew.  "He's  no  good,"  he  remarked. 

"I  heard  a  feller  telling  this  guy  how  he  ought  to 
go  get  up  a  big  act  and  cop  the  coin,"  went  on  the 
Property  Man.  "Now,  he'd  look  nice  in  a  swell  act, 
he  would !  But  he  was  takin'  it  in  like  it  was  on  the 
level.  Them  kind  never  do  have  no  sense." 

"That's  right.  Got  a  cigarette?"  returned  Sammy, 
amiably. 

Dave  was  very  quiet  all  day  Wednesday.  He  had 
changed  his  shirt  for  the  night  show,  an  unheard-of 
extravagance,  as,  with  careful  chalking  one  white  shirt 
usually  did  duty  for  several  days.  Daisy  was  worried. 
She  hoped  no  woman  had  become  smitten  with  her 
Dave's  good  looks,  and  sent  him  a  mash  note. 

This  dressing  up  was  suspicious  But  it  wasn't  a 
female  that  he  had  "slicked  up"  for.  Two  strangers 
were  in  back  that  night.  The  stage  manager  told 
Daisy  they  were  a  big  agent  from  Twenty-eighth 
street,  and  the  manager  of  an  uptown  vaudeville 
house.  It  was  after  the  stage  manager  had  whispered 
to  the  pair,  and  all  three  had  laughed  that  the  agent 
sought  out  Dave. 

"You  got  a  nice  little  act,"  he  observed.  "Got  any 
booking?" 

Dave's  chest  measurement  increased  considerably 
in  the  minute  during  which  the  agent  addressed  him. 
It  was  pretty  easy  when  agents  that  most  performers 
couldn't  even  get  a  pleasant  look  from  walked  up 
and  made  that  kind  of  a  talk!  Daisy  hurried  to  the 
dressing-room.  She  was  so  excited  that  she  could 
scarcely  do  her  daily  gymnastic  feat  and  reach  down 

37 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

her  back  to  undo  the  hooks  of  the  oft-cleaned  blue 
costume. 

"My  dear  boy,  you're  in  wrong,"  said  the  agent  to 
Dave,  as  they  stood  in  the  greenroom.  "You  ought  to 
have  a  big  act.  One  of  those  girl  acts." 

"An' — an'  if  I  had  one  would  you — you  book  me?" 
Dave  was  stuttering  in  his  anxiety  to  hear  the  great 
one's  answer. 

"Why,  sure !"  said  the  latter.  He  found  his  friend, 
and  nodded  a  good  night  to  Dave.  "Come  up  and 
see  me  when  you  get  it  fixed  up,"  he  called,  jokingly. 

The  stage  manager  concealed  a  grin.  "There's  a  tip 
for  you,''  he  said.  "About  six  gells  now,  an'  you  doing 
the  comedy  and  dancing.  That'd  be  great  stuff."  The 
Property  Man  worked  at  this  house.  "Aw,  quit  kiddin 
that  lobster,"  he  exclaimed.  "He'll  about  be  leavin' 
that  little  gal  an'  tryin'  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  he  ain't  that  big  a  fool,"  replied  the  stage 
manager,  carelessly.  It  was  no  joke  to  Dave.  They 
had  saved  three  hundred  dollars  by  much  pinching, 
and  washing  and  mending  by  Daisy.  She  carried  the 
bankroll,  and  they  had  guarded  it  faithfully. 

"You  ain't  seen  your  folks  in  a  long  time,"  began 
Dave,  after  they  had  dined  and  repaired  to  their  room. 
"S'posin'  you  was  to  take  a  trip  up  and  see  'em?" 

"An'  what'd  become  of  the  act?"  cried  Daisy.  He 
must  be  fooling  about  it.  But  he  wasn't,  and  finally 
she  understood.  I'm  too  good  fur  this  game,"  he  said, 
in  rather  a  shamefaced  manner.  "Now  listen  here.  I 
kin  take  this  change  we  got  saved  an'  get  up  a  swell 
big  act.  See?" 

"No,"  answered  Daisy,  forlornly,  "I  don't.  I  see 
that.  But  you  shan't  do  it !  You  shan't,  shan't !"  She 
began  to  cry  miserably.  "I  wisht  I  was  dead!"  she 
sobbed. 

"That's  right.  Turn  on  the  waterworks."  Dave's 
face  was  very  red.  He  felt  mean  about  it,  but  why 
should  she  cut  up  this  way  about  it  when  he  was  go- 
ing to  make  a  career  with  his  talent?  \Vfomen  were  so 

38 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

absurd.  "Have  some  sense !"  he  urged.  They  argued 
until  time  to  report  at  the  theatre,  and  kept  it  up  at 
intervals  thereafter 

The  Property  Man,  carrying  a  foam-topped  growler, 
discreetly  done  up  in  a  newspaper,  because  the  land- 
lady had  made  strict  rules  on  the  subject  of  growler- 
rushing,  stopped  on  their  floor  as  he  mounted  upward 
at  midnight 

He  had  seen  Dave  in  the  thirst  emporium  at  the 
corner  of  Irving  Place,  and  he  knew  that  Daisy  was 
alone.  He  could  hear  her  choking  out  her  misery  in 
long  sobs.  "Darn  his  hide,"  he  thought. 

He  knocked  on  the  door.  After  a  moment  it  opened 
a  crack.  "Hope  I  ain't  butting  in,"  he  greeted  cheerily, 
displaying  the  growler,  "but  I  heard  you  laffin 
an'  kinder  thought  I'd  stop  an'  ast  what's  the  joke? 
Say,  I  got  three  corned  beef  sandwiches  an'  a  kittle  of 
suds  here,  an'  they  won't  do  you  a  bit  o'  good."  His 
smile  was  a  very  kindly  one. 

Daisy  figured  that  he  might  have  really  supposed 
she  had  given  way  to  mirth  instead  of  tears.  She  in- 
vited him  in,  because  it  was  lonely  staying  in  a  little 
chilly  room.  The  Property  Man  left  the  door  ajar 
and  convered  in  a  very  loud  and  friendly  tone.  He 
would  have  no  scandal  growing  out  of  this  visit.  He 
didn't  mention  Dave.  That  wasn't  etiquette,  but  he 
told  her  tales  of  the  business  in  the  earl}'  days  of  the 
"Black  Crook"  until  she  forgot  her  woes  and  laughed 
in  earnest. 

"Poor  little  rat,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  upstairs 
an  hour  later.  "That  feller's  a  bad  boy." 

In  the  end  Dave  had  his  own  way  about  what  he 
would  do.  Daisy  went  home  on  fifteen  dollars  of  their 
board,  to  live  in  her  mother's  Boston  flat  until  Dave 
made  money  and  sent  for  her.  She  begged  to  be  one 
of  the  chorus  he  was  going  to  engage.  It  would  save 
a  salary,  but  Dave  said,  "No,  the  girls  wouldn't  work 
the  same  with  the  boss'  wife  in  it." 

He  got  a  hall  to  rehearse  in,  and  a  man  to  write  the 

39 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

"business"  for  the  act.  The  author  would  get  his  pay 
out  of  the  first  week's  salary. 

"I'm  no  piker.  No  chorus  gells  for  mine,"  he  said. 
"Show  gells.  I'll  give  em'  thirty-five  a  week,  and 
we'll  show  the  managers  we  got  the  goods."  There 
were  no  salaries  to  pay  during  rehearsal,  but  some  of 
the  girls  were  broke.  Dave  had  ten  of  them. 

"It'll  all  be  paid  if  you'll  let  them  three  board  here 
just  till  I  start  off,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  De  Shine. 

She  had  become  interested  from  listening  to  Dave's 
enthusiastic  accounts  of  the  new  novelty. 

"I  shall  charge  yuh  with  their  bills,  then,"  she  re- 
turned, "an'  they  gotta  behave  like  ladies." 

Dave's  chorus  were  ex-members  of  a  Broadway  mu- 
sical piece,  and  they  didn't  get  along  with  the  vaude- 
ville and  burlesque  people  when  they  all  met  at  meals. 
Mrs.  De  Shine  had  intended  to  be  very  friendly. 

"I  was  in  the  first  livin'  pictures  in  bronze  at  the  old 
Californy  Theatre  in  'Frisco  myself,"  she  said,  where- 
at the  young  women  cackled  merrily.  They  were  not 
aware  that  their  employer  had  worked  his  credit  to 
secure  lodging  for  them,  and  Mrs.  De  Shine  seemed 
a  wonderful  joke  to  these  former  spear-carriers. 

"Whyn't  yuh  dramatize  yuhself  an'  go  intuh  vode- 
ville  now?"  asked  the  cut-up  of  the  trio. 

"I  s'pose  I'd  rather  be  boardin'  fresh  hussies  who 
ain't  got  thutty  cents,  miss,  or  missus,  whatever  yuh 
are,"  returned  Mrs.  De  Shine,  angrily.  "The  dear 
knows  yuh  look  old  enough  tuh  have  a  family  past 
first  shave  age !" 

"Don't  you  dare  to  address  us  that  way!"  cried 
the  blondest  one. 

"Haw!  haw!"  laughed  the  Property  Man,  while  the 
other  boarders  waited  in  pleased  excitement.  There 
would  surely  be  a  mix-up,  for  Mrs.  De  Shine  would 
take  no  sass  from  any  person.  But  Dave  had  heard 
his  employees'  remark  as  he  entered  the  room  for  his 
his  own  meal. 

It  took  a  lot  of  squaring,  but  as  the  frightened 

40 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

chorus  ladies  agreed  to  make  a  public  apology  the 
landlady  said  they  could  remain.  Certain  privileges 
accorded  more  favored  guests  were  refused  in  their 
case.  Their  gentlemen  friends  could  only  see  them  in 
the  hall,  for  the  landlady  informed  them  that,  lacking 
a  chaperon,  no  visitors  could  be  received  in  their 
rooms.  As  Collins  &  Burt  had  the  parlor  for  two 
weeks,  rooms  being  scarce,  the  hall  room  alone  re- 
mained. 

Dave  had  expended  all  his  ready  cash,  and  still  the 
special  sets  must  be  paid  for.  A  music  publisher,  after 
much  thought,  lent  him  $150  for  a  quarter  interest  in 
the  act.  This  was  a  ruinous  bargain  to  Dave,  but  he 
was  broke,  and  he  had  to  have  money.  There  were 
props  to  be  manufactured,  and  photographs  of  the  co- 
median and  his  chorus  to  be  taken  for  use  in  the 
lobbies. 

It  all  cost  money,  and  every  man  who  did  work  for 
him  made  plain  the  fact  that  he  was  "from  Missouri" 
and  must  have  the  cash  before  the  goods  were  turned 
over.  But  rehearsals  proceeded. 

Dave  wrote  to  Daisy  to  do  what  she  could,  and  his 
faithful  ex-partner  pawned  her  watch  and  her  two  dia- 
mond rings.  The  jewelry  had  been  bought  with 
money  saved  from  many  a  weary  trip  through  the  one 
night  stands.  The  "stones"  had  made  a  front  in  the 
act,  and  Daisy  had  kept  them  safe  for  a  long  time. 

Her  mother  became  interested.  The  two  women 
read  Dave's  letter  over  many  times.  They  began  to 
think,  as  he  did,  that  the  act  would  win  out.  But 
money  he  wanted  for  it!  Twelve  hundred  dollars  a 
week !  Daisy  had  never  been  so  intimately  associated 
with  hundreds  of  dollars  'before,  even  if  they  were  not 
yet  in  real  money. 

But  other  performers  with  big  novelties  got  that 
much.  They  had  only  to  "deliver  the  goods,"  produce 
something  which  was  new  and  startling,  and  the  man- 
agers would  pay. 

Daisy's  mother  mortgaged  the  furniture  in  the  flat, 

41 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

and  sold  a  lot  of  things,  which,  she  fibbed,  she  really 
didn't  need. 

The  money  went  to  Dave.  The  act  was  almost 
ready  when  the  tailor  who  made  the  smart  dress  suit 
and  the  two  comedy  costumes  for  his  use  refused  to 
send  them  home  until  the  bill  was  paid.  Dave 
offered  him  an  order  on  the  box-office  for  the  first 
week's  salary,  but  the  tailor  smiled  scornfully.  He 
had  had  such  orders  before. 

There  was  one  hope  left.  There  was  the  fares  to 
pay  to  Albany — a  big  agent  had  booked  him  there  to 
try  it  out — and  the  clothes  and  the  act's  property  man 
had  to  leave  his  family  some  money.  Dave  rapped  on 
the  door  of  Mrs.  de  Shine's  own  room.  He  told  his 
tale. 

"You're  a  good  feller,  Mis'  De  Shine,  an'  you  done  a 
lot  for  me  now,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "but  if  I  kin  get 
a  hundred  an'  fifty  I  kin  pay  it  back  quick.  Seems 
tough  for  me  to  bust  up  now." 

"Lemme  see,"  said  Mrs.  De  Shine,  reflectively. 
"Well,  I  guess  I'll  let  yuh  have  it.  I  been  up  against 
it,  an'  though  I  must  say  I  think  Daisy  oughta  be  in 
it,  a'  course  that  ain't  none  of  my  business,  an'  I'm  a 
woman  who  don't  butt  in.  Outa  twelve  hundred  a 
week  yuh  kin  pay  it  back  an'  have  ten-fifty  left." 

Dave  hastily  explained  about  the  salary. 

"I  had  to  take  this  week  cheap — see?"  said  he. 
"The  agent'll  look  us  over  an'  then  when  we're  a  hit 
book  us  at  the  salary.  Why,  it's  a  regular  little  mu- 
sical comedy,  you  know.  It'll  be  a  revelation  to  'em. 
Four  changes  of  costumes,  an'  the  gells  all  play  brass 
in  the  finish,  dressed  in  tights  an'  hussar  coats.  An'  I 
got  a  male  quartette.  I  put  them  in  last  week.  Needed 
the  male  voices.  It's  great — great!" 

"But  how  much  will  yuh  git?"  demanded  Mrs.  De 
Shine. 

"Well,  the  fust  week  we  git  fares  up  an'  back  an' 
hotel  expenses,"  said  Dave,  uneasily.  "I  had  to  do  it 
so  they  could  see  the  act.  But  it's  only  to  try  it  out." 

42 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

He  added  many  earnest  arguments,  and  at  last  Mrs. 
De  Shine  dug-  down  into  her  stocking  and  produced  a 
roll  of  yellowbacks  which  gave  forth  a  pleasant  crack- 
ling noise.  And  Dave  went  out  with  the  needed 
amount,  much  elated.  He  couldn't  fail  now. 

The  act  opened  at  a  Monday  matinee  in  Albany. 
Tuesday  morning's  papers  contained  the  most  effu- 
sive notices  about  it.  They  said  that  David  Allen  had 
given  a  new  kind  of  comedian  to  the  stage,  and  that 
his  company  was  in  every  way  admirable.  Four  New 
York  agents  were  there  to  look  it  over  on  Monday 
night. 

"It's  good,"  they  told  Dave,  "but  this  might  be  a 
fluke.  Take  another  trial  week  in  Newark,  and  then, 
if  she  goes,  we'll  book  you  solid." 

One  of  the  girls  had  a  rich  father.  She  sent  him  an 
urgent  telegram,  and  he*  mailed  her  a  hundred.  She 
lent  it  to  Dave.  She  was  a  new  recruit  to  vaudeville. 
On  that  they  got  through  to  Newark.  One  more  week 
and  they  would  all  have  money,  when  the  big  salary 
began. 

They  were  back  in  New  York  to  play  a  Sunday 
night  concert  in  the  local  house  of  the  circuit  to  which 
the  Newark  theatre  belonged,  that  being  in  the  con- 
tract. Monday  Dave  was  at  the  office  of  the  agent 
who  had  bidden  him  get  a  feature  act.  It  was  he  who 
had  booked  the  two  weeks  at  no  salary. 

"Well,  there  isn't  any  more  booking,  that's  all," 
said  he  calmly,  when  Dave  broke  through  the  guards 
and  made  his  talk. 

"But  we  were  a  hit!"  wailed  Dave,  despairingly, 
"and  you  said " 

"I'm  liable  to  say  anything,"  remarked  the  agent, 
cooly,  "but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  you  $300 
a  week,  and  ten  weeks  right  now. 

"Three  hundred !  Why,  it  wouldn't  pay  the  salaries 
let  alone  the  excess,  and  fares,  and  me."  Dave  leaned 
against  the  wall.  He  couldn't  see  plainly,  and  his 
throat  hurt. 

43 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  COME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

"Then  you  shouldn't  have  got  up  such  an  affair," 
replied  the  agent,  coldly.  "Four  people's  plenty.  You 
could  have  got  six  smart  girls  for  eighteen  each,  and 
made  money.  You're  a  fool.  Better  dig  up  that  little 
girl  you  used  to  work  with,  and  can  this  thing  you  got. 
You're  crazy." 

Dave  visited  other  agents  and  heard  the  same  thing. 

Somehow,  he  got  back  to  the  Actors'  Boarding 
House  and  sneaked  upstairs.  He  lay  on  the  bed  in  the 
darkness  and  cried  until  the  coarse  pillow  was  wet 
and  smelly  from  the  dampened  ancient  feathers  inside. 
It  was  all  over. 

Johnny  Hicks,  of  Barrington  &  Hicks,  the  rapid-fire 
talking  act,  had  heard  gossip  as  he  made  the  rounds 
of  the  agents  that  day,  gaily  asking,  "Got  anything  for 
me?"  He  reported  to  Mrs.  De  Shine  that  he  guessed 
Allen  wouldn't  be  quite  so  uppity  in  the  future.  It 
was  back  to  the  woods  for  his.  The  landlady  ques- 
tioned him  closely,  and  after  Johnny  had  gone,  she 
wrote  to  Daisy. 

The  Property  Man,  in  whom  his  old  friend  had  con- 
fided, met  Daisy  at  the  station.  They  had  a  long  con- 
versation on  the  way  down  on  the  car.  Mrs.  De  Shine 
had  a  little  supper  ready  in  the  dining-room. 

"Get  some  booze,  Mista  Johnson — quick !"  she  cried- 
"The  poor  gell's  down  an'  out !" 

The  Property  Man  hustled  down  to  Fourteenth 
street,  returning  with  whisky.  They  gave  Daisy  a 
generous  drink  of  it. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  said,  wiping  "her  reddened  eyes, 
"but  if  he's  all  right  an'  willin'  to  work  with  me  again 
we  can  save  up  an'  pay  it  all.  They'll  all  git  theirs,  an' 
yuh,  too." 

"Oh,  shucks;  I've  knowed  yuh  six  years,  ain't  I?" 
said  Mrs.  De  Shine.  "Don't  talk  foolish.  Yuh  kin 
pay  when  yuh  git  it.  An'  don't  worry." 

It  was  very  late  when  Daisy  went  up  to  their  old 
room.  It  was  stuffy  and  full  of  stale  cigarette  smoke 

44 


ALLENS  SPLIT,  BUT  CCME  TOGETHER  AGAIN. 

when  she  entered  without  knocking.  Dave  knelt  by 
the  bed. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  prayin',"  he  muttered.  'She'll  quit 
me.  I  wisht  I'd  stuck  tuh  Daisy.  I  ain't  no  good." 

"Yer  mv  old  Dave!"  shouted  Daisy.  She  was  be- 
side him  on  the  floor,  an  instant  later,  an  arm  about  his 
neck.  Dave  looked  at  her,  and  dropped  his  eyes.  Hot 
tears  dripped  from  them.  What  an  idiot  he  had  been 
to  treat  this  little  woman  as  he  had!  "I'll  be  a  good 
boy,  hun',  he  whispered.  "Honest,  I  will." 

"Well,  then  let's  git  a  good  night's  sleep,"  said 
Daisy.  "Allen  an'  Allen  is  goin'  back  intuh  vodeville 
to-morrow !" 


The    Unreality   of    Realism. 

THE  party  of  tenderfoot  tourists,  chaperoned  by  Chica- 
go Charlie,  gazed  about  them  with  an  air  of  intelligent  in- 
terest. They  were  finding  out  things  about  New  Mexico. 
Three  of  the  lady  tenderfeet  trotted  close  beside  Charlie, 
enchanted  with  his  drawl — assumed  for  the  occasion — 
"studying"  him  anxiously. 

He  was  a  "type."  He  told  them  of  his  far-away  home, 
among  the  Gila  monsters  and  the  bleaching  buffalo  bones 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  dear  old  Rio  Grande,  and  of  how 
the  old  folks  were  waiting  there  for  him.  After  that  he 
might  have  had  their  bank  roll  to  the  case  dollar.  But 
Charlie  didn't  want  their  money.  He  was  simply  taking  a 
cheerful  holiday. 

He  wasn't  a  puncher  at  all,  and  a  polled  Angus  beef 
steer  or  a  mild  eyed  Jersey  were  all  the  same  to  him ;  yet 
the  tales  he  spun  to  the  best  looker  of  the  lot,  of  riding 
night  herd  on  the  snoozing  cattle,  caoling  loudly  through 
his  lonely  vigil,  excited  her  so  that  she  wished  passionately 
to  be  a  cattle  queen,  instead  of  a  quiet  little  person  in  a 
long-tailed  New  York  gown. 

Charlie  dealt  bank  at  the  Overland  saloon  nights.  He 
had  spotted  the  sight  seeing  band  as  they  emerged  from  a 
greasy  breakfast  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  two  stories  high,  and 
the  best  hostelry  in  Cuchilla.  He  was  taking  a  nightcap 
with  the  day  barkeep  of  the  Overland,  after  a  long  night's 
play  with  a  bunch  of  foolish  young  men  from  the  Circle  D 
outfit,  over  on  the  Pecos. 

Three  of  the  cattle  gents  now  snored  noisily  from  the 
sawdust  covered  floor  in  the  back  room,  drunk  and  busted. 
Charlie  was  sober,  but  not  sleepy.  Feeling  jestful,  with 
Johnny  the  barkeep's  help  he  pulled  off  the  best  yellow 

46 


THE  UNREALITY  OF  REALISM. 

chapps  of  one  guest,  his  spurs  (gun  belt  he  had  none — 
these  were  not  stage  cowboys)  and  a  large  red  bandanna 
which  the  puncher's  best  girl,  up  in  Las  Vegas,  had  given 
him. 

Hurriedly  arraying  himself,  Charlie  added  the  sombrero 
of  the  biggest  puncher.  He  left  his  own  clothes,  made  to 
measure  in  K.  C.,  and  his  diamonds  with  the  barkeep,  then 
strode  out,  a  joy  to  the  eye.  When  the  pompous  old  pro- 
fessor, who  was  out  West  to  personally  inspect  the  early 
haunts  of  the  storied  Aztecs,  spied  Charlie,  he  greeted  the 
latter  courteously.  He  figured  that  life  is  at  best  uncer- 
tain, and  these  Western  people  might  draw  a  gun  unex- 
pectedly. 

They  became  very  friendly,  because  Charlie  promised  to 
reveal  to  him  the  secret  of  a  lost  Aztec  mine.  Science 
would  benefit,  and  the  professor  had  no  objection  to  con- 
necting with  mineral  riches.  Fate  had  plainly  sent  this 
confiding  man  to  him. 

Therefore  the  professor  encouraged  Charlie  to  converse 
at  length,  so  he  prattled  artlessly,  and  much  better  than  if 
he  had  really  known  anything  about  the  matters  of  which 
he  spoke.  It's  so  easy  to  lie. 

As  the  morning  advanced,  Cuchilla  grew  busy.  Pros- 
pectors from  the  hills  rode  in  to  renew  camp  supplies  at 
the  general  store.  A  lucky  man  had  found  a  rich  nickel 
prospect,  with  cobalt  and  gold  along  with  it,  and  others 
were  searching  and  sweating  in  the  hot  sun,  working  and 
hoping. 

When  they  came  to  town  they  bucked  the  stud  tables 
and  the  bank — that  was  why  Charlie  had  come  on  from 
Tonopah  on  a  hurry  call  from  his  friend  who  ran  the  Over- 
land. 

Charlie  showed  the  party  everything.  Pack  trains  of 
burros,  off  for  the  hills ;  the  bunch  of  'dobe  huts  on  the 
fringe  of  the  town  ;  the  water  filled  shaft  of  the  abandoned 
Lost  Chance  mine,  a  dead  one  now. 

He  pointed  out  imaginary  trails,  leading  upward  into 
the  mountains,  over  which  the  Injuns  had  traveled  to  and 
from  their  hidden  stores  of  gold  and  silver.  He  didn't 

'47 


THE  UNREALITY  OF  REALISM. 

say  where  the  Injuns  had  found  this  wealth  to  cache,  and 
the  professor's  party  didn't  ask. 

It  was  noon  when  they  came  upon  a  full-blood  "blanket" 
Ute,  loafing  about  on  the  rickety  sidewalk  in  front  of  the 
Overland. 

"How?"  said  he,  politely,  to  which  the  professor  re- 
sponded with  a  dignified  salute. 

Charlie  winked  expressively  at  the  Ute  gentleman, 
whose  left  eyelid  trembled  ever  so  little  in  response. 

"We're  just  in  time  to  see  this  heathen  at  some  of  his 
tricks,"  whispered  Charlie.  "He's  a  reg'lar  Aztec,  too. 
Just  the  breed  you're  collectin'  dope  on !" 

The  Indian  paid  no  more  attention  to  the  spectators.  He 
knelt  on  a  creaking  board,  producing  a  bit  of  white  chalk 
and  a  fifty-cent  piece.  Then  he  drew  a  circle,  enclosing  it 
with  a  square,  and  inside  the  circle  he  made  a  cross.  And 
without  warning  he  suddenly  hid  his  dark  face  in  his 
blanket  and  sobbed  dismally. 

"He's  up  against  it,"  remarked  Charlie.  "He's  got  to 
put  money  in  the  four  corners  of  that  thing  he's  made  or 
nothin'  doin'.  It's  some  junk  his  folks  always  done,  he 
says.  Let's  go  away.  I  wouldn't  give  him  a  cent." 

"Hold  my  young  friend ;  you  do  not  understand !"  ex- 
claimed the  professor.  "This  is  a  sacred  rite.  I  have 
read  of  it  in — well,  anyway,  I  have  read  of  it,  I  am  sure.  It 
has  been  handed  down  from  the  days  when  Egypt  and  this 
continent  were  one.  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  the 
ancient  Phoenicians  were  closely" 

But  the  Ute  had  ceased  to  wail.  He  looked  up.  "Must 
put  silver  in  him,"  he  said,  imploringly.  "If  not,  make 
Great  Spirit  very  mad."  He  pointed  to  the  sun  blazing 
above  them. 

The  professor  began  to  dig.  In  the  land  of  the  silver 
dollar  coins  are  plenty. 

"This  poor  creature  means  that  he  will  offend  the  Great 
Spirit  by  offering  a  base  metal,"  he  said,  happily.  "Oh, 
this  is  splendid — splendid.  You  see,  he  is  evidently  a  sun 
or  fire  worshipper."  He  put  several  quarters  into  the 
worshipper's  soiled  hands. 

48 


THE  UNREALITY  OF  REALISM. 

The  Indian  laid  them  in  little  piles  in  three  of  the  spaces. 

"He  not  'nough,"  he  observed,  pointedly.  "Him  be 
very  mad."  The  ladies  shelled  out  their  silver,  adding  it 
to  the  sacrifices. 

"Cigarette?  Make  him  go  better,"  said  the  Indian, 
gravely. 

The  thin  young  scientist,  with  a  stained  finger,  handed 
over  a  box  of  Turkish  cigarettes,  which  the  Indian  kept, 
after  lighting  one. 

He  said  queer  guttural  things  to  the  Great  Spirit,  wav- 
ing his  arms  solemnly  toward  the  sun.  Twice  he  called 
for  fresh  supplies,  and  the  professor  found  two  more  quar- 
ters. 

"I  haven't  any  more,"  he  said.  "I  guess  that  will  be 
plenty." 

"I  guess  so,  too,"  said  the  Indian,  calmly,  scooping  up 
the  booty.  "So  long,  boss.  Come  and  see  us  again !" 

The  professor  had  received  a  rude  shock.  This  Aztec 
was  a  con  man.  But  he  still  had  a  real  live  cow  puncher 
to  study.  Just  then  the  door  of  the  Overland  opened  and 
a  tousled  head  peered  out. 

"If  you  don't  bring  back  my  pants,  you  onery,  dressed 
up  Chicago  dude,  out  there,  lettin'  on  you're  a  cowboy,  you 
bum  gambler,  I'll  let  the  sunlight  through  your  hide!" 
shouted  a  voice. 

The  best  looker  gazed  at  Charlie,  and  she  began  to  cry. 
The  professor  was  too  frightened  to  speak,  so  he  led  the 
flight  of  the  scientific  investigators. 

And  Charlie  went  inside  and  bought. 


The  Romance  of  the  Re- 
arranged  Pairs. 

"SET  right  down  by  Rant  an'  Holler,  Vivian,"  said  Mrs. 
De  Shine,  cordially.  "Yuh  folks  is  playin'  on  the  same 
bill,  an'  it'll  be  comp'ny  like  fur  yuh  tuh  be  tuhgether. 
Susy,  bring  Vivian  an'  Pete  the  meat  an'  pitatters." 

But  Vivian  Du  Barry,  of  Smathers  and  Du  Barry,  the 
well  known  singing  and  dancing  act,  drew  back  from  the 
table.  She  bent  upon  Rant  and  Holler  a  look  of  disdain, 
and  executed  a  truly  Parisian  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"I  won't  mingle  with  them  people,  Mis'  De  Shine,  an' 
neither  will  Pete,"  she  said  haughtily.  "I'm  in  vodeville, 
an'  a  lady,  an'  no  two  false  alarms  from  the  legit  kin  stick 
up  their  noses  at  me,  as  was  done  by  them  parties  tuh-day 
at  the  matinee — so  I  must  ast  yuh  tuh  kin'ly  change  us." 

The  other  boarders  ceased  to  cackle  among  themselves. 
A  rough  house  seemed  imminent,  and  they  waited  anx- 
iously, hoping  it  wouldn't  blow  over.  Miss  Holler  nudged 
her  husband,  J.  Romeo  Rant.  "Listen  to  that  hussy," 
she  whispered,  but  Mr.  Rant  motioned  her  to  remain 
silent.  He  stood  up,  for,  being  only  a  week  old  recruit 
from  heavy  drama,  he  could  not  speak  to  the  best  advan- 
tage unless  able  to  move  his  arms  freely. 

He  waved  his  hand  with  much  dignity.  "Madam,"  he 
said,  addressing  the  landlady,  "I  prithee,  harken!  On 
behawlf  of  me  wife  and  mesilf,  permit  me  to  request  that 
you  remove  these  vulgar  ones  as  far  from  our  immediate 
proximity  as  may  be  consistent  in  the  limited  space  at  your 
command !  I  have  played  parts  of  such  subtle  niceness 
of  characterization  that  yon  fellow" — here  he  waved  tow- 
ard Mr.  Pete  Smathers,  whose  mouth  was  open  as  these 

50 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

large  words  smote  his  wondering  ears — "wouldst  fain 
fail  to  comprehend  the  message,  which  aided,  in  truth, 
somewhat  by  the  author's  lines,  I  sent  across  the  foot- 
lights to  delighted  thousands !" 

"Hully  gee!  I  guess  he  ain't  there  with  that  stuff!" 
commented  the  Property  Man  from  his  end.  "I  dunno 
how  they  think  up  all  them  gags." 

The  landlady  was  impressed.  "Well,  a'  course,  yuh 
know  yer  own  game,"  she  replied,  cheerfully.  "Now, 
Vivian,  yuh  an'  Pete  squeeze  in  up  at  t'other  end  by  the 
Fitzwilliam-McToy  Trio,  an'  yuh'll  all  be  fixed  up  grand. 
Susy,  switch  them  plates  around  an'  give  Johnny  Bell 
his  pie !" 

Glowering  upon  the  hated  legits,  Vivian  and  Pete  took 
their  seats. 

"We  got  chicking  soup,"  said  Susy,  the  slavey,  so  they 
took  soup. 

"Is  they  chicking  stoo?"  inquired  Pete,  eagerly.  He 
learned  that  they  were  a  day  too  late.  There  had  been 
chicken  for  the  Sunday  dinner.  The  soup  was  merely  a 
watery  reminder  of  past  luxury.  His  appetite  partly  ap- 
peased, Pete  addressed  the  Property  Man. 

"We  had  'em  crazy  to-day,"  he  observed.  "Took  seven 
bows.  That's  goin',  some." 

"I'm  gettin'  a  noo  spangled  dress,  an'  a  swell  lace  coat, 
an'  they'll  cost  nine  hundred,"  put  in  Vivian,  whose  regard 
for  the  act's  reputation  was  stronger  than  her  desire  to  be 
entirely  truthful.  "We're  goin'  to  Yurup  in  May,  an' 
booked  solid,  'ceptin'  three  weeks,  till  then.  I  guess  the 
knockers'll  leave  us  alone  now !" 

"Vivian's  a  lovely  gell,  an'  a  real  artist,"  remarked  Mrs. 
De  Shine,  as  she  hovered  about  Mr.  Rant.  "Her  an' 
Pete's  been  married  six  months  an'  still  tuhgether.  A' 
course  they  have  their  little  spats,  an'  they  put  a  dressin' 
room  at  Keefe's,  Philadelphy,  on  the  fritzerine  last  week, 
but  them  things  ain't  nothin'.  Well,  how'd  yuh  like  vod- 
daville,  so  far's  yuh  went,  Mis'  Holler  ?  I  was  onct  in  the 
business  myeelf,  but  it's  a  wearin'  life,  an'  I'm  satisfied 
tuh  be  this  way.  A'  course  I  frame  up  an'  go  out  onct  in 

51 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

a  while,  an'  I  got  a  world  of  frens  in  the  purfession.  Did 
yuh  go  good  tuh-day  ?" 

Miss  Holler  sighed.  She  had  been  leading  lady  with 
the  "Her  Stepmother's  Sin"  company,  in  which  Mr.  Rant 
was  leading  heavy,  and  her  first  reception  in  the  varieties 
had  saddened  her.  "Well,  the  fact  is,  our  sketch  is  above 
their  heads,  I  fear.  The  real  acting  of  our  playlet,  fol- 
lowing a  low-class  comedy  sketch,  which  appeals  to  the 
vulgar,  naturally  is  not  appreciated,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so,  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  De  Shine,  as  she 
winked  at  the  Blackface  Comedian.  "Have  yuh  got  any 
bookin'?" 

"Assuredly  we  shall  not  lack  for  engagements,  me 
good  lady,"  boomed  out  Mr.  Rant,  "when  the  agents  view 
our  vehicle.  We — perhaps  I  should  say  I — will  educate 
the  audiences." 

"That  guy'll  git  fat  in  this  business,"  said  the  Property 
Man,  privately,  to  Mrs.  Mangle,  of  the  Three  Mangles. 

Little  Minnie  Mangle,  the  child  wonder,  playfully  fired 
a  robust  dill  pickle  at  Mr.  Rant.  "We're  headliners,  an' 
vou  ain't  nobody,"  said  she,  derisively.  "Is  he,  mom- 
mer?" 

"Now,  Minnie,  quit,  or  yuh  can't  have  no  cawfee  nor 
no  pie!"  warned  Mrs.  Mangle,  whereupon  dear  little  Min- 
nie overturned  her  doting  parent's  soup  into  the  maternal 
lap. 

"Ain't  she  the  little  cut-up  ?"  cried  the  fair  Vivian,  but 
Pete  was  uneasy.  "Don't  be  astin'  her  up  to  our  room," 
he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Last  time  we  stopped  here  didn't 
she  put  mud  on  a  white  shirt  I'd  only  wore  ten  days? 
Have  some  sense !" 

"O,  I  can't  do  nothin',  as  usual,"  retorted  the  rebuked 
Vivian  fretfully.  "I  just  gotta  slave  my  life  out  an'  never 
do  nothin'."  She  relapsed  into  injured  silence.  The 
boarders  had  ceased  to  converse  because  he  who  delayed 
partaking  of  the  food  as  it  was  passed  around  went  away 
with  an  aching  void  still  within  him. 

The  burlesque  people,  who  had  arrived  late,  waited  im- 
patiently in  the  hall,  jesting  somberly  among  themselves. 

52 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

The  comedians  never  said  anything  funny  off  the  stage 
through  fear  that  a  crafty  listener  would  incorporate  the 
witticism  in  his  or  her  act.  Most  of  them  knew  nothing 
funny  to  say,  so  they  fell  back  upon  the  familiar  habit  of 
"knocking"  others  and  "boosting"  themselves. 

As  Rant  and  Holler,  refreshed  by  a  long  session  at  the 
bountiful  table  of  the  Maison  De  Shine,  emerged,  those  in 
the  narrow  hall  made  a  determined  rush  for  the  two  va- 
cent  seats. 

Two  gentlemen  were  the  lucky  ones,  and  they  playfully 
kidded  their  less  fortunate  troupe  mates,  who  again  re- 
tired to  the  hall.  Miss  Holler  made  her  silk  petticoat, 
which  was  part  of  her  old  second  act  costume  as  Lady 
Hethrington,  rustle  smartly  as  she  ascended  the  stairs. 
Although  a  "legit,"  she  had  the  desire  of  all  females  to 
rustle  pleasantly  through  life. 

"Silk  skuts,  eh?"  sneered  Vivian,  who  had  paused  be- 
low. "The  airs  that  dame  gives  herself!  They  follored 
us  on  the  bill,  an'  was  a  frost — an'  him  callin'  me !  Ef 
Pete  Smathers  was  haff  a  man  he'd  lick  that  slob !" 

"Aw,  let  up !"  growled  Pete.  "Lick  him  yourself,  ef 
you  wanter !" 

"Pig!"  replied  his  wife,  bitterly. 


Up  in  their  third  floor  back  apartment  Rant  and  Holler 
sat  down  in  moody  quiet.  Miss  Holler  removed  her  silk 
petticoat  and  carefully  repaired  various  rents.  It  couldn't 
last  much  longer.  She  needed  a  great  many  things,  be- 
cause one  must  have  a  front. 

When  the  petticoat  was  made  whole  again,  she  delved 
in  their  "hotel"  trunk,  bringing  forth  the  half  of  a  green 
silk  piano  cover.  They  had  no  piano,  and  Mr.  Rant  had 
crying  need  of  a  new  necktie,,  so  she  fashioned  a  puffed 
Ascot,  and  cut  up  the  elderly  one  he  had  been  wearing,  to 
use  upon  the  petticoat  later. 

"Oh,  I  wish  we'd  stayed  in  melodramma,"  she  sighed. 
A  tear  spotted  the  green  silk. 

Mr.  Rant  really  believed  in  himself,  and  he  regarded 

53 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

his  industrious  and  rather  clever  wife  as  the  one  object 
which  stood  between  him  and  lasting  histrionic  fame. 
"Me  good  Mercedes,  you  weary  me,"  he  said,  grandly. 
But  his  wife  broke  into  what  promised  to  be  a  long  ha- 
rangue upon  the  subject  of  his  own  talent. 

"I  told  you  to  call  me  Maria  at  home,"  she  said,  sharp- 
ly. "There's  no  use  in  you  and  me  bluffin'  each  other. 
This  act  we  got  is  rotten,  and  you  know  it !  It's  got  no 
situations,  no  end,  no  nothing !  I'm  not  going  to  be  made 
a  fool  of  by  you,  and  if  you  can't  put  some  ginger  in  the 
darned  thing  I'll  go  back  to  my  old  show !" 

Mr.  Rant  regarded  her  very  sourly.  "Woman,  have  a 
care!"  he  exclaimed  sternly. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  dickens!"  cried  his  wife,  exasperated. 
She  arose,'  opened  the  door,  and  slammed  it  behind  her. 
"I  hate  him !"  she  muttered,  breathing  hard.  Common 
sense  had  told  her  that  the  act  wouldn't  go  without  some 
comedy  in  it.  Tragedy  of  the  cheap  sort  wasn't  a  hit  in 
vaudeville. 

She  might  have  been  playing  in  a  Western  stock  com- 
pany, assisting  at  the  afternoon  teas  on  the  stage  after  the 
two  matinees  a  week,  and  invited  everywhere  in  the  best 
society — been  a  lion,  in  fact ! 

She  could  see  the  two  sunny  rooms  hung  with  college 
banners  and  souvenir  programmes,  with  the  pillow-strewn 
couch  that  even  a  practiced  eye  couldn't  discover  was  her 
bed  at  night,  far  away  in  dear  Seattle.  People  were 
kinder  there — or  was  it  that  with  husbands  like  J.  Romeo 
one  couldn't  get  on  well  in  any  town? 

She  had  left  her  happy  home  for  him,  and  he  had  failed 
to  make  good. 

"He's  a  big  false  alarm,  like  that  blond  cat  said,"  she 
ruminated  out  in  the  chilly  hall,  through  which  swept  an 
icy  draft  from  an  open  bathroom  window.  The  burlesque 
people  were  heavily  descending  the  front  stairs  prepara- 
tory to  starting  for  the  theatre.  She  hurriedly  stepped 
inside  the  bathroom  and  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  painted 
tub,  waiting  until  they  had  gone.  In  the  bottom  of  the 
tub  lay  the  coffee  grounds  from  some  careless  boarder's 

54 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

''light  housekeeping,"  and  a  wet  newspaper  added  to  its 
untempting  look. 

The  hot  water  tap  didn't  run  and  the  cold  one  was  used 
to  fill  pitchers.  No  one  ever  bathed  in  the  tub.  A  stiffly 
starched  white  curtain,  blue  in  spots  from  overzealous 
"whitening,"  waved  in  the  cold  breeze.  Dust  lay  thick  on 
the  window  sill,  as  it  did  all  over  the  house.  They  had 
only  been  there  twenty-four  hours,  and  already  a  dreadful 
tiredness  was  upon  her.  She  was  sick  of  the  gabbling 
Rant,  and  of  vaudeville,  if  this  was  what  it  meant. 

From  the  open  transom  opposite  the  bathroom  she  heard 
loud  voices.  Vivian  and  Pete  occupied  this  chamber. 

"Keep  still.  Can't  you  see  I'm  tryin'  to  read  this 
book?"  Pete  was  plainly  irritated. 

"Oh,  yer  alus  readin',  'stead  of  payin'  attention  tuh  me !" 
shouted  the  fair  Vivian.  "I'm  the  hull  act,  anyway !  Ef 
my  figger  was  tuck  out  you'd  be  a  'chaser'  'stead  of  bein' 
featured !  Ain't  yuh  goin'  tuh  sew  on  my  shoe  buttons  an' 
press  yer  pants?" 

Sew  on  her  buttons !  Maria  Holler  listened  in  amaze- 
ment. She  had  to  demean  herself  by  shining  Mr.  Rant's 
shoes  and  packing  around  a  gas  stove  and  flat  iron  with 
which  to  freshen  the  tragedian's  garments.  Did  tEis 
man  perform  like  tasks  for  his  shrew  of  a  wife  ? 

"Brush  off  my  skirt,  an'  it  gotta  have  a  noo  hook  at  the 
back!''  Vivian  continued. 

But  the  downtrodden  Pete  seemed  to  have  gone  on 
strike.  "See  here !"  he  answered,  gruffly.  "You  been 
gabbin'  all  day !  Now  let  up !  I  don't  mind  doin'  a  few 
jobs,  jest  out  o'  kindness,  but  you  been  doin'  the  Simon 
Legree  gag  till  I  got  enough.  You  sew  on  your  own 
hooks  and  lemme  be,  I  tell  you !" 

"Whyn't  yuh  beat  yer  pore  wife?"  shrieked  Vivian. 
"It's  what  I  expect!  I  kin  go  back  with  the  burlesque 
show,  an'  mebbe  I  will !" 

"Well,  g'wan,  then!"  roared  Pete.  Sniffles  and  the 
turning  of  a  page  came  from  the  room.  Miss  Holler  went 
slowly  back  to  her  own  room,  thinking  deeply.  Why  was 
it  always  thus  ?  The  unhappy  Pete  was  hopelessly  middle 

55 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

class,  and  yet  he  must  possess  a  kindly  nature.  Why 
did  the  Rants  and  Vivians  always  find  a  mate  the  very  op- 
posite of  themselves? 

*         *         * 

That  night  the  gallery  rudely  hooted  Rant  and  Holler's 
turn.  Vivian,  secure  in  her  coming  triumph,  stood  wait- 
ing her  cue  in  the  first  entrance,  attired  in  pink,  with  a 
many-flounced  skirt. 

Miss  Holler,  tripping  upon  her  flowing  Shakespearian 
costume — their  act  was  a  Desdemona  and  the  Moor  affair 
— saw  Vivian  savagely  poke  Pete  with  a  lace  parasol, 
used  in  the  cakewalk  finish,  because  he  gallantly  offered  a 
helping  hand  to  the  fallen  Desdemona.  She  threw  him  a 
grateful  glance  as  she  followed  Mr.  Rant,  stalking  toward 
the  dressing  room. 

While  he  was  doing  his  eccentric  dance,  the  big  feature, 
Pete's  mind  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  the  ex-legit  had  nice, 
kind  eyes.  They  didn't  have  that  ugly  gleam  of  the 
lovely  Vivian's.  All  that  night  Vivian  and  he  battled.  By 
noon  of  the  next  day  it  was  noised  about  that  Smathers 
and  Du  Barry  were  going  to  split  because  he  licked  her, 
and  even  refused  to  give  her  as  much  as  a  nickel  of  the 
money  she  helped  to  earn. 

Which  was  quite  as  near  the  facts  as  such  reports  are 
wont  to  be.  And  Rant  and  Holler  were  on  equally  bad 
terms. 

It  was  about  noon  one  day  that  Miss  Holler  strolled 
disconsolately  through  Union  Square.  The  twittering- 
sparrows  and  the  warm  sun  did  not  attract  her.  She  sank 
down  upon  a  bench  trying  hard  not  to  cry. 

Across  from  her  sat  a  young  man,  smartly,  if  rather 
loudly  dressed,  staring  into  vacancy.  He  seemed  in 
trouble.  Miss  Holler  did  not  even  see  him  as  she  took 
out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  watering  eyes,  but  he 
saw  her,  and  he  got  up  and  walked  over  to  her  bench. 

"You  up  agin  it  too,  sister?"  he  said,  gently.  "Say,  I'm 
sorry.  I  guess  you're  a  good  fella,  an'  you  got  in  wrong." 

The  friendly  voice  finished  Miss  Holler.  "I — I  wish  I 
were  dead !"  she  sobbed  miserably. 

56 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

He  patted  her  arm  with  a  kind  hand.  "Let's  go  git  a 
drink,"  he  urged.  "It'll  bring  you  down  to  earth.  You 
know  me — Smathers?  I'm  goin'  to  be  a  single  turn  from 
now  on.  I've  quit  Vivian."  He  led  her  to  a  little  Ger- 
man rathskeller,  and  Miss  Holler  trotted  along  quite 
meekly. 

In  the  relief  of  swapping  their  troubled  pasts  they  lin- 
gered until  late.  It  was  so  late  that,  having  taken  a  good 
deal  of  respectable  refreshment,  they  finally  noted  the 
fat  waiter  turning  on  more  electric  lights.  It  was  5 
o'clock!  And  Rant  and  Holler  were  on  at  2:40  and 
Smathers  and  Du  Barry  at  3 ! 

In  wild  panic  the  pair  stumbled  up  the  steps  into  the 
light  and  on  toward  the  theatre,  where  they  pushed  their 
frantic  way  through  the  crowds  which  were  coming  out. 
The  "supper  show"  was  starting. 

"Listen,  honey,"  whispered  Pete — they  were  like  old 
friends  now — "nothin'  to  it,  both  our  acts  are  cancelled. 
It'd  be  a  big  fine  fur  a  headline  act,  but  the  bounce  fur 
ours.  Better  git  your  wardrobe !" 

"I  told  him  we  wouldn't  last  till  Saturday  night !"  said 
Miss  Holler,  illogically.  Both  acts  were  "closed,"  as  Pete 
had  predicted.  Mr.  Rant  and  the  furious  Vivian  met 
them  back  of  the  stage.  The  mixup  which  followed  will 
live  in  stage  history.  Pete  walloped  Mr.  Rant  and  Miss 
Holler,  maddened  by  Vivian's  insults,  punched  the  other 
lady  violently  in  the  eye.  The  teams  split  right  there. 


Many  things  can  happen  in  a  few  months.  Miss  Holler 
was  free  once  more,  and  so  was  Miss  Du  Barry.  With  all 
parties  willing,  the  divorces  had  been  easily  procured. 
The  quartette  disappeared  for  a  time. 


It  was  a  pleasant  May  evening  when  Smathers  and 
Holler,  the  feature  act  on  the  Billiams  circuit  for  eight 
weeks,  reached  New  York.  They  did  not  stop  at  the 
Maison  De  Shine,  but  at  a  good  hotel  on  Union  Square. 

57 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REARRANGED  PAIRS. 

On  the  same  bill  were  Rant  and  Du  Barry,  who  do  an  act 
in  which  many  things  are  mingled.  They  opened  the 
show,  came  on  again  at  5 :2O,  and  did  their  last  show  at 
5  :5O.  They  were  "chasers,"  that  most  humiliating  posi- 
tion in  vaudeville. 

They  had  a  small  room  at  the  Maison  De  Shine,  and 
they  joined  the  boarders  at  dinner. 

"Pass  the  axle  grease !"  shouted  Mr.  Rant,  gaily.  "I'd 
go  to  work  if  I  had  me  tools  !" 

"What  tools?"  asked  a  new  recruit  from  the  "legit." 
Mr.  Rant  was  old  in  vaudeville  now. 

"Me  knife  and  fork — I'm  a  table  finisher,"  was  the  an- 
swer, and  everybody  laughed  at  the  chagrined  questioner. 

"My  heavings,  I  wisht  you'd  see  the  dog  Smathers  an' 
Holler  puts  on,"  said  the  Blackface  Comedian,  between 
bites.  "Got  a  red  carpet  from  the  dressin'  room  to  the 
stage,  so  her  Paree  dresses  won't  be  ruint,  an'  two  maids, 
an'  he's  got  a  vally.  Headin'  the  bill  tub  our  show." 

"I  knowed  'em  both  well,"  said  Mrs.  De  Shine,  proud- 
ly. "Yuh  'member  Pete  Smathers,  Vivian?" 

"Yes,  an'  I  dunno  how  them  dubs  does  it,"  replied 
Vivian,  envy  biting  deeply  into  her  soul.  "Her  covered 
with  di'monds,  an'  him  waitin'  on  her  like  a  suhvant !" 

"Yes,  an'  they're  the  lovin'est  couple  I  ever  see,"  put  in 
the  Property  Man.  "Well,  they  treat  the  gang  right — 
tips  on  every  side.  Them's  the  kind !" 

"Throw  the  cow  acrost!"  said  Mr.  Rant,  gruffly,  indi- 
cating the  milk  jug. 

"Where  do  yuh  folks  go  from  here?"  asked  the  Sou- 
brette. 

"Don't  book  that  fur  ahead,"  replied  Mr.  Rant.  "But 
I'm  dickerin'  with  Huber's." 

The  landlady  addressed  the  boarders  at  the  far  end  con- 
fidentially, "I  think  Pete  done  jest  right!"  said  she. 


The    Fickleness   of   Pugnose 
Grady's   GirL 

DIAMOND  FLOSSIE  had  climbed  up  four  shaky  flights  in 
a  Pell  street  house  that  she  might  make  a  social  call  upon 
Pugnose  Grady's  girl.  The  latter  was  at  present  not  per- 
mitted to  venture  into  the  gay  world,  because  "Pretty 
Sammy"  was  just  out  of  "college,"  and  he  had  money. 

Pugnose  himself  conducted  a  "dump"  within  the  con- 
fines of  Chinatown,  and  he  didn't  feel  like  taking  chances 
on  Pretty  Sammy  "stealing"  his  lady  friend.  It  was  well 
known  among  their  mutual  friends  that  Blonde  Ida  had 
never  quite  forgotten  an  early  romance,  of  which  Sammy 
was  the  hero. 

Diamond  Flossie  condoled  with  her  friend.  "Every  one 
in  Callahan's  is  sayin'  that  Pugnose  ain't  treatin'  yuh 
right,"  she  exclaimed,  warmly.  "Why  don't  yuh  quit 
him?  That  Sam's  a  swell  dip,  an'  blows  his  coin  like  a 
sport.  I  never  see  Pugnose  give  up." 

"It's  the  Gawd's  truth,  too!"  remarked  Ida,  folding  a 
loose  garment  which  apparently  would  have  shied  at  sight 
of  a  washtub,  closely  about  her  stout  person.  "Look  what 
I  done  fur  him,  an'  I  ast  him  yestiddy  fur  a  hat,  an'  I  seen 
a  elegant  one  over  on  Hester  street,  what'd  look  grand  on 
me — an'  he  puts  up  a  beef  about  the  elbows  shakin'  him 
down  ag'in  an'  cleanin'  him  out.  They  gits  a  sailor  fur  a 
bundle  it  ain't  t'ree  night  ago.  His  bit  must  a'  been — 
what's  that?" 

She  jumped  up  from  the  bright  pink  velvet  couch  of  evi- 
dent Grand  street  origin,  and  darted  to  the  window. 

"They  pinched  him  again  ?     Kin  yuh  see  the  store  from 

59 


FICKLENESS  OF  PUGNOSE  GRADY'S  GIRL. 

here?"  Flossie  was  eagerly  peering  out  beside  her  hos- 
tess. A  whistle,  clear  and  loud,  came  from  the  street  be- 
low them  as  Ida  opened  the  window. 

"Nix — 'tain't  that — ef  that  ain't  Sam's  whistle  I  hope  I 
may  choke,"  returned  the  agitated  Ida.  "Many's  the  time 
he  gimme  the  office  to  do  a  hotfoot  in  the  old  days.  Gee, 
Pug'd  croak  me  ef  he  knowed  I  was  doin'  this." 

She  leaned  out  and  whistled  a  reply.  Groups  of  China- 
men were  gabbling  at  intervals  along  the  street.  From  the 
floor  above  came  the  squawk  of  a  Chinese  riddle,  while  the 
river  wind,  which  blew  coldly,  bore  the  sickening  odor  of 
cooking  chop  suey. 

No  one  answered  as  the  women  looked.  The  fat  cop- 
per, chatting  in  a  grocery  doorway,  glanced  up  idly.  There 
was  no  enamored  Sam  among  those  in  the  narrow  street. 
Diamond  Flossie  sighed.  She  had  hoped  for  some  mild 
excitement.  Married  to  the  doting  and  wealthy  Chinese 
gambler,  Tom  Lee  Wang,  and  perfectly  satisfied  with  her 
life  of  easy  plenty,  Flossie  depended  on  the  various  affairs 
of  her  acquaintances  for  entertainment. 

"That  was  a  wrong  steer,"  she  said  regretfully,  but  as 
she  spoke  they  heard  the  whistle  again. 

"I  see  him !  I  see  him !"  Ida  was  waving  a  fat  arm 
wildly,  and  a  man  on  the  balcony  of  a  chop  suey  joint 
across  the  street,  two  floors  below  them,  signalled  back, 
but  more  cautiously.  Pugnose  Grady  seemed  in  line  to 
lose  a  home. 

The  man  disappeared  inside  suddenly.  They  saw  him 
cross  the  street,  and  two  minutes  later  a  stealthy  footstep 
approached  the  door.  Waiving  ceremony  aside,  Pretty 
Sammy  stepped  inside.  Not  to  arouse  jealousy,  he  kissed 
both  fair  damsels,  but  Flossie's  was  a  friendly  salute,  while 
to  Ida  fell  the  burning  kiss  of  love. 

"Come  on  an'  quit  this  bloke !"  Sammy  urged,  after 
rapturously  greeting  the  buxom  custodian  of  two  loving 
hearts — his  own  and  Mr.  Grady's. 

"We  was  told  yuh  turned  a  trick  an'  got  nothin'  but, 
now,"  remarked  Flossie  amiably,  elevating  a  good  sized 
foot  to  the  table.  The  three  sat  smoking  cigarettes  in 

60 


FICKLENESS  OF  PUGNOSE  GRADY'S  GIRL. 

much  comfort.  Sammy  explained  that,  having  been  forced 
to  divide  his  loot  with  two  plain  clothes  gentlemen,  the 
remainder  had  dwindled  rapidly,  what  with  treating  the 
gang  and  being  a  right  guy  generally.  He  was  about  to 
imprint  another  loving  kiss  upon  the  happy  Ida's  well 
rouged  face  when  she  jumped  up  in  wild  alarm. 

"IT'S  PUGNOSE !"  Her  voice  sounded  cracked  in  its 
fear,  for  Pugnose  was  a  gun  fighter  and  a  tough  proposi- 
tion in  a  rough-and-tumble,  like  most  barroom  scrappers. 
In  an  instant  the  gaslight  was  glinting  on  Pretty  Sammy's 
patent  leather  heel  as  he  squirmed  under  the  bed.  Ida's 
heart  was  chug-chugging  so  that  it  hurt  when  she 
breathed.  Flossie  decided  hastily  that  the  protecting  pres- 
ence of  her  own  Tom  Lee  Wung  was  greatly  to  be  desired. 

She  went  out  as  Pugnose  came  in,  muttering  a  fright- 
ened greeting  as  she  passed  him. 

"That  dame's  nutty,"  said  Pugnose  in  disgust.  "Hell ! 
What's  she  runnin'  away  from  me  for  ?" 

"I — I  dunno,  Puggie,"  faltered  the  lady.  Pugnose  said 
that  she  was  nutty  also.  He  seemed  morose.  Finally  he 
sat  heavily  upon  the  bed,  under  which  Sammy  must  be 
sweating  horribly,  in  all  the  dust  and  litter  of  old  papers 
and  boxes. 

"Pretty  Sammy's  out,  the  fourflushin',  cross-eyed  slob," 
burst  out  Pugnose. 

"Is  he  ?"  politely  returned  the  shaking  Ida. 

"Listen  here !"  began  Pugnose  abruptly.  "They's  eleven 
hundert  here,  see?  Plant  it  in  yer  sock.  I  t'ink  they're 
goin'  tuh  pull  us  again.  Youse  stick  here  till  I  say  youse 
kin  go  out,  or  I'll  wallop  youse."  He  threw  over  a  roll  of 
money.  Obediently  Ida  followed  instructions.  Pugnose 
arose.  He  had  to  get  back  at  once,  he  said. 

As  he  opened  the  door  the  woman  saw  a  short,  black 
club  smash  against  the  top  of  his  bullet  head.  Again  it 
smashed,  and  Pugnose  fell  to  his  knees  half  out  in  the  hall. 
Pretty  Sammy,  crawling  out  from  concealment,  had 
sprung  upon  him.  Now  he  dragged  the  limp  Pugnose  in- 
side. 

"How's  that,  babe?"  he  asked  coolly.  Then  he  "frisked" 

61 


FICKLENESS  OF  PUGNOSE  GRADY'S  GIRL. 

the  unfortunate  Pugnose,  bringing  to  view  a  paper  on 
which  was  the  latest  combination  of  Pugnose's  safe  over 
in  "the  place."  ''Get  your  rags  on,  skate  down  there  an' 
holler  out  he's  mugged  an'  sent  you  for  the  bankroll  to 
spring  him,"  he  said.  "And  here — here's  seventy  bucks ! 
Put  'em  in  your  kick.  Then  chase  back  here  an'  we'll 
blow  to  Boston.  I  got  a  good  graft  there." 

Fascinated  by  his  business  sense,  Ida  quickly  made 
ready.  They  knew  her  at  the  saloon,  and  trusted  her  as 
Pugnose's  dearest  possession  should  be  trusted.  "Don't 
be  long,"  said  the  ardent  Sammy  as  she  hurried  away. 


Frisco  Kid,  the  barkeep,  began  to  laugh  as  she  dramati- 
cally told  her  sad  story.  "What  you  up  to,  anyway?"  he 
asked  pleasantly.  "Better  smoke  up,  Ida.  You're  a  lyin'. 
But  have  a  drink  anyway." 

A  stiff  hooker  of  whiskey,  and  then  another  had  the 
expected  effect.  The  Kid  was  so  sympathetic  that  she  told 
him  all  about  it  and  what  a  sweet  pet  Sammy  was.  The 
Kid  thought  quickly. 

"Say !  You  look  good  to  me,"  he  said,  "an'  that  Sam- 
my ain't  nothin'.  You  want  a  smart  fella,  not  a  bum ! 
Gimme  that  combination.  How'd  you  like  to  go  to  Frisco 
with  me?  It's  a  swell  little  place!" 

Oh,  the  fickleness  of  females !  Entranced  by  his  argu- 
ments, Ida  realized  that  she  had  often  noticed  the  Kid's 
manly  graces.  "Then  let's  sack  the  joint !"  said  she,  reso- 
lutely. Pugnose's  beloved  large  diamond  stud,  consider- 
able cash,  the  "fall  money"  of  two  pals,  left  in  his  keeping, 
were  in  the  safe.  They  then  emptied  the  cash  drawer. 

"The  ferry  for  ours,"  cried  the  Frisco  Kid,  as  they  fled 
into  the  alley  behind  the  saloon,  "an'  we  got  Sammy's 
seventy,  too!" 

"Oh,  that  mutt !"  replied  Ida,  contemptuously.  "Is  me 
lid  on  straight?" 


62 


The    Fake    Eviction. 

THE  Ingenue — What,  more  canned  peas?  Really,  all 
along  the  cirkit  of  parks  we  been  havin'  green  corn  an' 
them  things. 

The  Landlady — These  here  is  fresh  peas,  Imogen. 

Little  Minnie  Mangle  (the  child  wonder) — Oh,  Antie 
Maggie,  you  is  a  old  fibber!  I  seen -the  cans  in  the 
kitchun ! 

Mrs.  Mangle — Minnie!  Ef  I  don't  wallop  you  good 
and  plenty  when  yon  leave  the  table !  Oh,  only  them 
what  has  the  raisin'  of  a  cheild  knows  what  torture  kin  be 
inflicted  by  their  actions. 

The  Landlady  (coldly) — Yuh  don't  need  tuh  try  tuh 
square  it.  Mis'  Mangle.  An'  I  must  ast  yuh  folk's  tuh 
kin'ly  hand  me  what's  comin'  tuh  me.  I'm  gettin'  sick 
of  warmin'  vipers  clost  tuh  my  heart. 

Fred  Flap  (of  Flip,  Flap  and  Nippup;  just  closed  with 
the  "Merry  Madcaps") — Waal,  the  kid  don't  mean  no 
harm.  I  seen  the  cans  from  our  winder,  as  fur  as  that 
goes.  And  we  want  some  curtains  put  up.  Them  people 
across  the  street  kin  look  right  in  at  us. 

Tessie  Flip  (his  wife) — And  unless  the  gell  sweeps 
under  our  bed  we'll  quit.  We  ain't  no  common  persons, 
and  are  used  to  comfort. 

The  Property  Man — Well,  I'm  fairly  easy  goin',  but 
I've  stood  for  things  here  I  wouldn't  at  no  other  place. 
There  wasn't  no  towel  fur  my  bath  last  night  and  it's 
the  second  Satiddy  night  the  same  gag  has  come  off. 

The  Slavey — Honest,  Mista  Johnson,  I  put  one  in  your 
room. 

The  Landlady — Yuh  folks  seem  tuh  think  I  kin  keep  a 
Walldof  here,  when  out  of  heaving  knows  how  many 

63 


THE  FAKE  EVICTION. 

boarders  jest  two  has  settled.  Ef  yuh'll  pay  what  yuh 
owe,  Mista  Flap,  I  kin  fix  the  curtains.  Ef  yuh  had  a 
house  full  of  parties  eatin'  their  three  squares  a  day,  an' 
sayin'  they  ain't  workin'  an'  can't  pay,  where'd  yuh  be  ? 

Tessie  Flip — Ef  we  hadn't  lost  our  understander,  Mista 
Nippup,  by  him  gettin'  married,  we'd  be  workin'  this  min- 
ute. I'm  sure  we  allus  paid  before. 

Eddie  Smoke  (blackface  comedian) — I'll  be  there  with 
bells  on  in  a  couple  a  weeks,  Mis'  de  Shine.  Primrose  is 
after  me,  but  I'm  holdin'  out  fur  bigger  money,  an'  I  may 
go  with  Dockstader.  He's  crazy  to  sign  me. 

The  End  Man — He'll  sure  be  crazy  if  he  does,  son. 
You  want  to  cook  up  another  pill.  I  think  the  last  one 
got  burned. 

The  Ventriloquist — Ha  !  Ha !  Say,  what's  Fido  mak- 
ing the  row  about? 

The  Slavey  (opening*  the  door.  Fido,  the  poodle,  is 
heard  yelping  in  hall) — Mis'  de  Shine !  The  agent's  here, 
an'  he  says  he's  a  goin'  tuh  put  us  out  if  the  rent  ain't 
paid! 

Little  Minnie  Mangle — Mommer,  I  wannet  cuppa  cow- 
fee,  or  I  won't  do  my  dance  to-night ! 

The  Landlady — Susy,  keep  him  out!  Oh,  I'm  ruint, 
an'  they  ain't  no  helpin'  hand  put  out  tuh  save  me ! 

All  the  Boarders — Here  he  comes  now ! 

Eddie  Smoke — Pass  the  pitattas,  quick.  I'm  goin'  to 
get  one  good  meal  before  we  have  to  blow. 

Mr.  Murphy  (forcing  his  way  into  room) — Madam, 
you  settle  within  five  minutes,  or  I  will  evict  you  from 
these  premises !  Hand  me  four  months'  rent,  because  we 
will  wait  no  longer. 

The  Landlady  (weeping) — Mista  Murphy,  I  swear  tuh 
yuh  I  ain't  got  a  case  note  left  in  my  stockin,  an'  that's 
the  truth.  I  got  money  comin',  but  I  can't  get  it ! 

Mr.  Murphy  (pitilessly) — Then  out  you  get.  I  got  six 
U.  S.  Marshals  with  me. 

The  Ingenue — Is  Bat  Masterson  one  of  'em  ?  Because 
I  knowed  him  in  the  West,  an'  he  wouldn't  see  a  lady  get 
no  such  a  deal ! 

64 


THE  FAKE  EVICTION. 

The  Landlady  (shrieks  and  falls  fainting  on  chair) — 
All  bets  is  off!  All  is  over! 

Fred  Flap — Here,  I  can't  see  no  woman  sufferin'. 
Gimme  what  we  owe  her ! 

Tessie  Flip — Ssh!  Don't  be  a  fool!  Ef  we  give  her 
that  there  money  how 're  we  goin'  to  live  till  the  show 
opens  ? 

(Mr.  Flap  orders  her  to  produce,  and  she  digs  up  a 
fat  roll,  peeling  off  three  tens.) 

The  Property  Man — Come  on,  folks,  chip  in!  I'm 
paid  up,  but  here's  six  bucks  in  advance !  (Throws  money 
on  table.) 

Mr.  Mangle  (also  been  under  cover) — Here's  our 
twenty-six !  this  ain't  no  time  to  be  stingy. 

The  Landlady— Help ! 

Little  Minnie  Mangle — She  kin  have  the  quarter  what 
was  throwed  at  me  at  the  matinee,  mommer!  Honest, 
she  kin. 

Everybody — Little  pet,  isn't  that  sweet? 

Mr.  Murphy — Hey,  come  on,  you  can't  gimme  that  old 
con  !  Got  to  be  more'n  that ! 

The  Property  Man — Don't  you  use  that  tone  in  here,  or 
I'll  beat  you  to  death,  see?  Get  out'n  the  hall,  you  loafer ! 

Mr.  Murphy — I  won't!     Come  on  with  the  rent! 

The  Landlady  (sitting  up) — Oh,  Imogen,  ef  yuh  was 
tuh  pay  up  I  cud  manage ! 

The  Ingenue  (slowly  digging) — Maggie,  I  dunno  how 
I'm  going  to  send  pawr  the  money  for  the  mortgage  now, 
but  there's  the  forty  I  owe,  an'  I  wisht  you  luck. 

Tessie  Flip — And  her  makin'  out  she  was  broke  all  this 
time.  I  allus  said  Imogen  was  a  two-faced  hussy ! 

Mr.  Murphy — Get  out  o'  my  way !  (He  pushes  the  P. 
M.  roughly  and  snatches  at  rnoney.  The  Landlady  re- 
vives and  grabs  it  first.) 

The  Property  Man — Who  you  talkin'  to?  You  will 
bully  a  woman,  will  you?  There!  (Punches  him;  Mr. 
Murphy  goes  to  floor.)  Come  on,  boys,  jump  on  him ! 

Eddie  Smoke — Make  him  eat  this  here  steak — that'll 
be  the  thing! 

65 


THE  FAKE  EVICTION. 

Mr.  Murphy  (feebly) — Oh,  not  that ! !     Lemme  up ! 

The  Landlady — Mista  Johnson,  don't  kill  him,  fur  my 
sake!  An'  kin'ly  clear  the  room,  folks,  so  the  second 
table  kin  git  their  dinners ! 

Mr.  Murphy  (as  he  is  permitted  to  rise) — You  got  to 
pay  me  more'n  five  for  this  job,  Maggie  de  Shine!  I 
agreed  to  play  this  part,  an'  help  you  make  'em  settle,  but 
not  to  get  put  on  the  blink. 

All  the  Boarders — Say,  gimme  my  money  back.  This 
fellow's  an  imposter. 

The  Landlady — Five  is  all  yuh  git,  Clarence  Murphy. 
As  fur  yuh  folks,  much  obliged.  I  guess  I  got  yer  num- 
bers now,  so  in  future  yuh  pay  in  advance ! 


The  Rise  and  Fall  of  Dooley's 
Dog  Act. 

"Dooi.EY's  DOGS"  was  an  act  which  played  the  vaude- 
ville houses  and  was  always  working.  Old  John  Dooley 
didn't  receive  the  big  money  which  the  topliners  could 
command,  but  his  salary  of  seventy-five  went  a  long  way. 

Unkind  show  folks  said  it  wasn't  any  wonder  he  had 
money.  If  he  didn't  live  any  better  than  the  dogs  them- 
selves, why  shouldn't  he  ?  Without  doubt  old  Dooley  had 
the  mangiest,  rattiest  dog  dog  act  in  the  business,  A 
greasy,  greenish  black  dress  suit,  with  a  silk  top  hat  so  an- 
cient that  a  thick  fuzz,  resembling  the  winter  coat  of  a 
horse  roaming  the  prairie  ranges,  covered  its  surface,  com- 
prised his  own  stage  wardrobe. 

He  had  bought  the  suit  years  before  of  a  small,  thin  man. 
As  Dooley  was  tall  and  lanky,  the  garments  did  not  fit 
with  that  perfection  of  which  we  sometimes  hear.  Before 
his  frugal  breakfast  it  was  his  invariable  custom  to  dip  his 
fingers  into  a  bowl  of  water,  whether,  as  he  often  said 
quite  soberly,  they  needed  it  or  not. 

Once  a  week  he  washed  his  face,  according  to  report. 
As  for  the  ten  dogs,  he  explained  that  it  was  a  foolish 
waste  of  time  to  be  fussing  over  and  bathing  them.  They 
only  got  dirty  again. 

After  a  long  season  West,  Dooley's  Dogs  were  playing 
New  York.  They  closed  the  show,  as  usual,  at  a  "con- 
tinuous" house,  and  their  owner  was  congratulating  him- 
self that  his  expenses  would  be  small  this  week.  Dooley 
indulged  in  no  such  frills  as  a  private  property  man,  and 
as  he  had  been  permitted  to  keep  his  yelping  troupe  under- 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

neath  the  stage,  in  the  lumber  room,  he  would  be  forced 
to  tip  the  house  "props." 

At  the  stroke  of  10  on  Monday  morning  he  was  in  the 
green  room  for  rehearsal.  Other  early  birds  were  waiting 
for  the  pianist,  who  rehearsed  the  turns,  but  Dooley  hus- 
tled up,  ahead  of  them. 

"'Member  me  from  last  season,  Purfessor?"  he  be- 
gan, fawningly.    "Dooley's  Dogs — you  know  me." 

"You  bet  I  do!"  replied  the  leader,  disgustedly,  "and 
you  still  owe  me  that  five  you  promised  me." 

Dooley  was  horrified.  This  fellow  could  undoubtedly 
kill  the  act,  and  he  had  craftily  contemplated  doing  his 
usual  "promising"  and  getting  away  with  it.  He  smiled 
anxiously,  hoping  to  propritiate  the  young  man,  who  gazed 
at  him  with  an  irritating  grin.  "Now  that'll  be  all  right, 
my  dear  boy."  Dooley  laid  a  soiled  hand  upon  the  pian- 
ist's arm,  which  the  latter  shook  off.  "You  really  get  a 
rest  in  my  act !  You  see,  I  ain't  got  any  music,  so  you  kin 
plug  any  publisher's  stuff  an'  play  what  you  wanter.  Just 
gimme  a  long  chord  before  I  make  the  announcement,  an' 
when  I  say  'Waltz !'  to  the  white  hound,  play  a  waltz. 
Sumpin'  lively  for  the  cakewalk,  an'  a  little  'chills  an' 
fever'  when  the  bull  terrier  goes  up  the  ladder  for  the  big 
leap.  I'll  fix  you  Satiddy  night,  don't  you  be  scared  o' 
that." 

"Well,  you  gimme  an  order  on  the  box  office,  then," 
answered  the  pianist,  unimpressed.  "You  got  to  show 
me,  Mister  Con." 

But  Dooley  soothed  him.  He  always  did.  From  the 
Orpheum  in  'Frisco  to  Tony  Pastor's  leaders  hated  him, 
but  he  always  slid  through.  He  asked  more  favors  than 
the  rest  of  the  bill  put  together,  and,  having  no  conscience, 
he  lied  and  crawled  out  of  rewarding  those  who  worked 
for  him  in  some  way.  He  slouched  off  now  to  confer 
with  the  stage  manager. 

Pansy  Newton,  of  The  Three  Newtons,  nodded  gaily  to 
the  leader.  "We  was  on  the  bill  with  'em  in  Saint  Looey," 
said  she,  giggling.  "An'  gee !  we  gells  never  knowed 
which  dog  was  the  wuss,  Dooley  or  the  mutts !" 

68 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

Pansy  wasn't  a  bad  looker,  so  the  leader  laughed.  He 
retorted  with  a  mild  jest  of  his  own.  "Say,  he's  a  nice, 
kind,  old  pappy  guy,"  he  remarked.  "Why  don't  you  cop 
him  out  and  quit  work?  He's  got  money." 

"Quit  yer  kiddin',  now,  Augustus,"  said  Pansy,  but  she 
didn't  mean  it.  Such  a  handsome  leader  should  be  en- 
couraged, and  after  he  had  inspected  her  lead  sheets,  and 
Phil  Newton,  her  brother,  had  fetched  his  cornet  so  that 
they  might  get  the  harmony,  and  Pansy  had  explained 
about  her  dance,  she  smiled  upon  the  leader  graciously. 

But  his  interest  was  merely  a  passing  one.  His  old 
friend.  Violet  Hale,  was  whispering  her  troubles  in  his 
ear.  They'd  put  Violet  with  the  three-a-day  turns,  and 
she  was  in  despair.  If  only  he  would  consent  to  play  her 
act,  because  any  one  knew  the  other  pianist  would  crab  it ! 

When  she  heard  him  agree  to  save  the  fair  Violet  and 
to  come  up  to  the  flat  and  see  the  folks  after  the  show, 
Pansy  sniffed  contemptuously,,  and  departed.  "Where  we 
dressin'.  Bill  ?"  she  inquired  of  the  stage  manager.  It  was 
two  flights  up,  and  after  our  little  Pansy  had  taken  the 
water  jump  in  the  shape  of  two  buckets  belonging  to  the 
theatre's  scrub  ladies,  she  began  climbing,  only  to  find  that 
while  Phil  and  his  wife  Mabel  had  a  good  room,  she  must 
dress  with  the  "Four  Queens  of  Comedy." 

She  went  downstairs  again.  "The  idee  of  puttin'  me  in 
with  them  dames!"  said  she,  wrathfully  to  "Props"  and 
the  stage  manager.  Both  said  it  was  a  shame.  They 
then  walked  away. 

"Darn  'em ;  laffin',  are  they  ?"  said  Pansy,  fretfully.  "I 
s'pose  it's  a  joke  that  I  gotta  be  thro  wed  in  with  them 
ex-burlesque  wimmen — Four  flushes  it  oughta  be !" 

Everybody  was  busy.  Performers  stood  about,  knock- 
ing each  other  in  the  kindly  vaudeville  fashion,  while  the 
Four  Comedy  Queens  were  squinting  at  the  board,  wailing 
in  distress  because  they  went  on  after  a  couple  of  "legits," 
new  recruits  to  variety,  who  had  a  cheerful  act  with  a  cou- 
ple of  murders  in  it.  The  fattest  queen  tearfully  declared 

69 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

that  it  was  all  pure  spite,  and  they'd  have  a  fine  chance  to 
make  good  in  such  a  place  on  the  bill. 

Phil  Newton's  trunk  hadn't  come,  and  the  tenor  of  the 
Jersey  City  Quartette,  who  always  brought  their  music 
and  rehearsed  the  turn,  hadn't  turned  up.  His  three  part- 
ners were  fussing  about,  and  Collins  &  May,  the  buck 
dancers,  were  quarrelling,  as  usual,  over  who  had  lost  the 
trunk  key.  Dooley's  Dogs,  downstairs,  set  up  a  muffled 
baying  and  snarling. 

It  must  have  been  fate  that  made  Mabel  Newton  ask 
her  sister-in-law,  Pansy,  where  in  time  Phil's  saxophone 
was?  "Well,  Mis'  Newton,  I  ain't  his  vally,"  replied 
Pansy,  grouchly.  "I  dunno  nothin'  about  it !  But  I  sut- 
tenly  know  I'm  bein'  used  bum  in  this  act !  Ef  I  git  near 
the  centre,  yuh  an'  Phil  go  up'n  the  air,  an'  yuh  got  all 
the  fat  lines — an'  I'm  gettin'  sick  of  it !" 

"He  put  yuh  in  the  business!"  taunted  Mabel.  Both 
ladies  indulged  in  violent  language,  and  Mabel  sailed  away 
sulkily,  while  Pansy  stopped  at  the  property  room  door. 
Mr.  Dooley,  engaged  in  wheedling  "props"  for  a  certain 
gold  chair  upon  which  Katie,  the  poodle,  would  look  cute, 
cast  a  watery,  approving  eye  upon  Pansy's  blonde  beauty. 

"Fine  gal,"  said  he. 

"Props,"  rooting  out  blue  curtains  for  a  sketch  team, 
grunted.  Mr.  Dooley  forgot  his  mission.  He  approached 
Pansy  and  said  it  was  a  cold  day. 

"Havin'  a  leetle  family  row,  eh,  my  dear?"  he  asked. 
Pansy  looked  haughty,  and  then,  with  a  startling  change, 
she  threw  a  dazzling  smile  at  the  unsavory  Dooley. 

"She's  a  reg'lar  cat !"  she  exclaimed.  "Fur  two  cents 
I'd  quit  'em !  I  kin  git  forty  partners,  an'  not  be  played 
fur  a  mark.  Is  all  the  dear  dawgs  well  ?" 

Dooley  swelled  visibly.  This  delightful  creature  was 
flattering  him  by  telling  him  her  little  secrets!  It  was 
true  that  vaudeville  has  no  secrets,  but  as  the  fair  ones 
generally  scorned  to  notice  either  Dooley  or  his  soiled 
dogs,  he  was  not  aware  of  this  fact.  He  hoped  he  wouldn't 
wake  up. 

Graciously  the  charmer  remarked  that  he  must  be  real 

70 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

lonesome  traveling  about  alone.  Dooley's  heart,  covered 
with  the  barnacles  of  many  selfish  years,  began  a  sudden 
house-cleaning.  It  gave  a  real  human  throb,  which  filled 
him  with  such  a  blend  of  fright  and  pleasure  that  he  stam- 
mered bashfully  in  his  haste  to  say  something  which  would 
prevent  the  lady  from  leaving  him  immediately. 

"I — I'm  goin'  to  get  s'more  dogs,"  he  said,  eagerly, 
which  wasn't  true,  but  it  sounded  well,  "an'  fix  it  up 
swell !" 

In  five  minutes  Pansy  had  confided  to  Dooley  her  whole 
past.  Long  practice  had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  tell 
it  in  even  less  time  if  she  had  to,  and  if  she  forgot  a  hus- 
band or  two  in  the  recital,  what  of  it?  Such  mere  detail 
is  frequently  overlooked. 

Pansy  had  an  idea.  She  was  a  quick  worker  and  a 
lightning  calculator  who  possessed  no  sporting  instincts. 
The  struggling  victim  would  be  given  no  chance  to  get 
away  if  she  once  decided  to  nail  him. 

Dooley  was  doomed  even  in  this  brief  space.  He  re- 
turned to  his  dogs  with  his  mind  going  through  a  string 
of  mental  acrobatics  which  almost  unfitted  him  for  active 
dog  training.  He  neglected  to  swear  in  his  usual  ferocious 
manner  at  his  troupe,  nor  did  he  kick  them.  He  sat 
down  in  the  midst  of  his  noisy  animals,  and  in  this  familiar 
atmosphere  endeavored  to  recollect  all  the  sprightly  Pan- 
sy's remarks. 

She  had  taken  a  sincere  interest  in  the  dogs,  and — here 
Dooley  grinned  foolishly  at  the  bull  terrier,  which  regard- 
ed him  curiously — she  had  pressed  his  hand  at  parting! 
Among  the  odorous  dogs,  Dooley  closed  his  eyes.  A 
bright,  alluring  vision  of  the  future  came  to  him.  There 
was  money  in  it,  and  fame. 

He  might  ensnare  this  golden  tressed  pet  and  put  her  in 
the  act!  In  purple  tights,  with  a  picture  hat,  a  velvet 
evening  cloak  and  a  whip,  snapping  it  spiritedly  at  the 
dogs,  would  she  not  boost  his  salary  to  unheard  of  pro- 
portions ?  And  ihen  it  would  give  him  unmeasurable  pri- 
vate satisfaction  to  have  this  little  coquettish  bird  trotting 
about  working  for  him. 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

"I'll  do  it !"  he  whispered,  exultantly.  "I'll  shine  up  to 
her  an'  marry  her!  She  likes  me  right  now.  Any  one 
kin  see  it !"  Alas,  poor  Dooley ! 

Over  in  her  boarding  house  Pansy,  the  little  rascal,  was 
eating  her  luncheon  (Dooley  had  his  with  the  dogs,  most 
economically),  and  she  told  her  lady  friend,  Bessie  Mi- 
crobe, of  Tl)e  Four  Musical  Microbes,  all  about  her  plan. 
"I'm  good  an'  sore  at  Phil  an'  that  wife  of  his,"  said  Pan- 
sy, "an'  I'm  goin'  tuh  quit.  I'm  goin'  tuh  grab  off  this  old 
guy  an'  not  waste  no  time.  He's  rollin'  in  money,  an'  I 
don't  keer  ef  the  hull  purfession  gives  me  the  boot — I  kin 
show  all  the  knockers  sumpin'  when  I  start  blowin'  his 
roll !  When  I  got  it  all  I  kin  give  him  the  laff  an'  beat  it !" 

"Heavings,  my  dear !  I  dunno's  yuh  cud  stand  the  old 
critter  around,"  replied  Miss  Microbe,  dubiously.  "Still, 
I  dunno.  Better  tuh  ketch  him  than  some  good  lookin' 
fella  what  yuh  gotta  work  fur.  But  the  dawgs  is  so  hor- 
rid." 

"Well,  a'course  he's  gotta  slick  'em  up  first,  see?"  said 
Pansy,  cheerfully,  "an5  stake  himself  tuh  a  couple  soots. 
I  ain't  no  fool,  my  dear,  an'  he  won't  gimme  nothin'  but 
the  best  of  it.  But  don't  yuh  breathe  it !" 

The  other  swore  a  ladylike  oath  of  silence,  and  imme- 
diately rushed  off  to  her  own  matinee  at  an  uptown  thea- 
tre, where  she  told  seventeen  performers  about  it,  enjoy- 
ing quite  an  extended  popularity  as  the  bearer  of  such 
toothsome  scandal. 


Dooley  watched  Pansy's  turn  from  the  first  entrance. 
He  followed  The  Three  Newtons  on  the  bill.  Twice  she 
winked  at  him  as  she  went  through  many  marvellous  steps 
in  her  buck  dance,  and  Dooley  smiled  back  fondly.  Throw- 
ing aside  the  cautious  habits  of  years,  Dooley  took  a 
chance  between  shows,  visited  a  barber's,  and  paid  twenty- 
five  cents  for  a  bath.  Refreshed,  and  rendered  even  more 
reckless,  he  got  a  shave  and  haircut  after  it. 

In  a  Third  avenue  window  he  noted  a  gay  pink  tie.  It 
was  50  cents.  Lost  to  reason,  Dooley  entered  the  shop 

72 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

and  bought  the  tie.  He  wore  it  with  conscious  pride  with 
his  dress  suit  at  the  night  show. 

The  pianist  snickered  as  "props"  from  the  wings  wig- 
wagged a  message  concerning  the  glad  raiment.  The 
stage  manager  jokingly  declared  that  Dooley  must  be  go- 
ing to  get  married. 

"Mebbe  I  am,  at  that,"  said  Dooley. 

When  he  had  paid  his  sister  her  salary  after  the  last 
show  on  Saturday  night,  Phil  Newton  asked  about  her 
trunk.  "Did  the  man  get  it?"  he  queried.  "Ours  is 
gone." 

"I  ain't  goin'  tuh  Boston  with  yuh,"  returned  Pansy, 
calmly.  "I've  quit  the  act!"  The  Three  Newtons  came 
together  in  a  clash  which  drowned  the  wild  barking  of 
Dooley's  Dogs  on  the  stage,  which  were  doing  their  big 
jumps  amid  considerable  applause,  but  Pansy  wouldn't 
relent.  They  could  get  another  woman  in  her  place,  or 
bill  the  act  as  a  team,  and  if  future  bookings  were  can- 
celled, it  wasn't  her  fault.  Mabel  was  too  mean  to  get 
along  with.  "I  say  you  SHALL  come!"  roared  Phil, 
furiously.  "Git  your  grip !" 

"Take  yer  hands  offa  me !"  shrieked  Pansy.  "Yuh  ain't 
my  boss !  Help,  help !"  For  Phil  was  dragging  her  tow- 
ard the  stage  door,  while  performers  rushed  from  their 
dressing  rooms  to  see  the  fray. 

Dooley,  torn  between  love  and  duty,  heard  his  Pansy's 
cry  for  aid  as  the  "dog  funeral"  was  in  progress.  The 
big  St.  Bernard  and  the  bull  terrier  were  seated  on  their 
gilt  stools  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 

"Sic  him!  Bit  him,  Joe  and  Bluff!"  he  commanded, 
the  while  attending  to  the  funeral.  Both  dogs  dashed 
from  their  stations  and  upon  Pansy's  angry  relative. 

Zip !  The  terrier  fastened  hungrily  upon  a  Newton  leg, 
while  the  St.  Bernard  jumped  for  Phil's  throat. 

"They'll  kill  my  Phil!  Help!  help!  help!"  screamed 
his  wife,  while  Pansy,  anxious  for  all  the  spotlight  she 
could  secure,  squealed  twice  and  fell  in  a  "prop"  faint  into 
the  electrician's  unwilling  arms. 

73 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

Dooley  had  to  call  'em  off.     Then  he  made  his  grand- 
stand play.     "Stand  back.     She  is  my  wife!"  he  shouted. 


"Mile.  Pansy  and  Her  Wondrous  Leaping  Dogs"  were 
an  "extra  attraction"  at  the  same  house  where  Dooley  had 
met  his  fate.  He  was  now  included  in  the  general  billing, 
as  one  of  the  "dogs,"  as  his  dear  little  wife  frequently  re- 
minded him. 

She  permitted  him  to  train  them,  but  she  bossed  the 
act,  and  with  a  hand  of  iron.  The  purple  tights,  with  a 
hussar  jacket,  in  gold  and  white,  as  Dooley  had  seen  them 
in  his  earlier  dreams,  became  Pansy  wonderfully.  Not 
only  did  she  whip  the  dogs,  but  just  as  often  the  lash 
flicked  smartingly  about  Dooley's  own  elderly  legs. 

He  wore  a  stage  costume  of  black  satin  and  she  forced 
him  to  wash  and  wash  until  he  loathed  water  with  a  deep 
and  ever  increasing  hate.  And  he  had  to  wash,  and  comb 
and  curry  the  dogs,  tie  ribbons  on  them,  and  perform  all 
such  menial  service  as  the  determined  and  domineering 
Pansy  pointed  out.  The  props  glittered  with  gold  and 
fancy  trimmings,  and  Dooley's  money,  hoarded  for  twenty 
years,  paid  for  it. 

Fine  rings  flashed  upon  Pansy's  lily  hands,  and  scintil- 
lating diamond  frogs,  snakes  and  birds,  decorated  her 
purple  chest.  Dooley  sported  a  set  of  near-pearl  studs. 
He  was  not  allowed  to  have  more  expensive  jewelry.  She 
said  he'd  only  lose  it. 

A  dollar  watch  ticked  loudly  in  his  pocket.  His  wife 
had  two  gem-incrusted  timepieces,  which  hung  upon  her 
person  from  diamond  brooches.  She  took  her  friends  to 
supper,  while  Dooley  stayed  with  the  dogs,  because  she 
said  he'd  be  more  at  home  there.  She  booked  the  act  and 
drew  the  salary,  and  when  any  daring  soul  remonstrated, 
set  the  dogs  on  'em. 

Dooley  had  a  breed  of  big  white  hounds,  silky  haired 
and  pretty,  but  of  small  value.  There  were  six  in  the  act, 
and  a  reserve  supply  at  some  kennels  near  New  York.  He 
paid  a  visit  there  one  morning. 

74 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

"Why,  she  took  the  whole  eight  away  a  month  ago!" 
said  the  dog  fancier,  in  answer  to  Dooley's  amazed  ques- 
tions. "I  s'posed  you  knew  it.  Say,  the  old  woman 
seems  to  kind  o'  run  you,  don't  she  ?" 

"Well,  it's  goin'  to  stop/'  growled  Dooley.  "Stop  to- 
day, too !"  He  returned  to  their  boarding  house  full  of 
fight.  This  was  too  much,  for  without  a  doubt  she  had 
sold  the  white  hounds.  But  when  the  intrepid  Pansy 
shrilly  demanded  information  as  to  his  whereabouts  dur- 
ing the  morning,  Dooley  wilted. 

"Where  was  yuh  ?  Joe  went  an'  tore  up  a  pair  o'  my 
tights!"  she  cried.  "Whyn't  yuh  stay  'round  an'  look  out 
fur  them  dawgs?  Honest,  I  never  see  such  a  lazy  old 
thing!  It's  what  I  git  fur  makin'  yuh  summon!" 

"Yes,  Pansy ;  yes,  my  dear,"  said  Dooley.  "I'll  whip 
him.  That'll  fix  him !" 

"Jest  leave  my  dawgs  alone,  Mista  Dooley,"  said  Pansy, 
majestically  and  inconsistently.  "An'  git  on  over  tuh  the 
showshop  this  minnit !  Them  poodles  been  doin'  that  sail- 
or's hornpipe  wuss'n  wuss.  Yuh  gotta  rehearse  'em.  I 
ain't  goin'  tuh  have  no  bum  effects  in  my  act — see  ?" 

"Vixen !"  snarled  Dooley,  outside  the  door.  But  he  did 
her  bidding.  Three  days  later  the  best  white  hound  in  the 
act  disappeared.  Dooley  asked  about  it,  and  his  wife  said 
she  didn't  know  where  Billy  was.  When  another  one 
went,  Dooley  wept  with  futile  rage. 

"He  wasn't  no  good  anyway,"  said  Pansy.  "So  I  let  a 
party  have  him.  We  got  plenty  right  now." 

In  three  weeks  only  four  of  the  dogs  were  left,  and 
Dooley  was  frothing  at  the  mouth.  The  manager  of  a 
Buffalo  house  said  he'd  have  to  cancel  the  act,  but  later 
agreed  to  let  them  work  out  the  week.  In  the  excitement 
of  Saturdav  night,  with  trunks  going  out  and  performers 
saying  good-by,  Dooley  missed  his  wife.  He  also  missed 
her  theatre  trunk,  and  three  more  dogs.  And  she  had 
drawn  the  salary  at  the  box  office. 

One  dog  was  left — Bluff,  the  sagacious  bull  terrier — and 
Dooley  saved  Bluff  from  the  wreck.  She  had  gone,  and 
for  good  and  all,  as  he  discovered  very  shortly.  He  was 

75 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  DOOLEY'S  DOG  ACT. 

glad  of  it.  It  was  worth  untold  gold  to  lose  her.  That 
night  he  didn't  take  a  bath,  nor  did  he  wash  his  face  next 
morning.  He  gave  grateful  thanks  that  he  was  once  more 
a  free  man,  and  Bluff  seemed  relieved,  too.  They  ate  to- 
gether in  much  cheerfulness  of  spirit. 


"Mile.  Pansy  and  Her  Wondrous  Leaping  Hounds"  are 
much  sought  after  for  hippodrome  attractions  in  foreign 
capitals.  Kings — of,  possibly,  inferior  quality,  but  still 
royal — have  given  her  presents.  Sometimes  an  American 
vaudeville  act  cuts  across  her  trail  and  they  laughingly 
speak  of  "Dooley  and  His  Dog,"  who  work  three-a-day 
back  in  America,  and  for  very  little  money.  When  an  act 
is  late  the  stage  manager  gives  Dooky  the  high  sign  to 
stretch  his  time  out  ten  minutes.  Sometimes,  again,  they 
cut  it  to  five.  The  prop,  sausage  which  the  dog  j  umps  for 
is  mouldy  looking,  and  so  is  Dooley — mouldy  but  con- 
tented. 


Mr.  De  Shine's  Return, 

The  guests  of  the  Madison  de  Shine  are  at  dinner. 


THE  LANDLADY— Now  I  hearn  yuh  win  a  bet 
tuh  the  races  yestiddy,  Mista  Pickem,  an'  so  parding 
my  astin'  but  are  yuh,  or  are  yuh  not,  goin'  tuh  hand 
me  what  you  owe  ? 

PETE  PICKEM  (of  the  Texarkana  Comedy  Four) 
— Listen,  Mis'  de  Shine.  We  ain't  worked  in  two 
months,  an'  while  I  admit  I  win  sumpin',  I  lose  it 
back  on  the  last  race,  see?  Ain't  they  no  way  we 
kin  frame  this  thing  up,  cause  we  got  the  Norman 
Cirkit  of  parks  startin'  the  first? 

THE  SLAVEY — Porkin  beans,  or  cornbif  an'  cab- 
bitch  ? 

BERTINE  FEATHERS  (of  Bertine  Feathers  and 
her  six  Panatella  Girls) — Don't  they  never  have  no 
chicking  here?  I  tell  you,  trampin'  up'n  down  them 
agents  stairs,  an'  then  comin'  back  to  the  same  old  thing, 
is  sumpin'  dretful. 

THE  IRISH  COMEDIAN— She  sure  sets  one  bum 
table. 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy !  Gwout  tuh  the  kitch- 
ing  an'  git  Fido's  boned  turkey  an'  his  cream.,  an' 
watch  like  a  hawk  that  the  dolling  don't  eat  no  bones. 
What's  all  these  here  kicks  up  tuh  this  end?  Seeia' 
as  good,  healthful  food  is  projuced  by  me,  they  ain't 
nobuddy  got  no  beef  comin'. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Haw!  haw!  Makin'  a 
beef  is  the  nearest  us  fellers  gets  to  beef  round  here. 
Now  s'long's  I'm  at  it,  Maggie  de  Shine,  listen  here! 

77 


MR.  DE  SHINE'S  RETURN 

Either  ice  cream  an'  cake  an'  strawbrys  an'  lamb 
chops,  is  dug  up  for  my  supper,  or  I  quit  and  quit  now ! 

MILDRED  MOLAR  (the  "queen  of  burlesque")  - 
Gee,  but  I  admire  his  nerve.  Well,  he  won't  get  it, 
cause  Maggie's  a  tightwad  and  allus  was. 

THE  SLAVEY— Tea  or  cawfee? 

THE  LANDLADY— Mista  Johnson,  yuh  made  yer 
last  bluff!  Now  yer  goin'  tuh  git  called.  NO!  NO! 
NO !  Yuh  kinnot  git  no  lamb  chops.  Folks  as  good 
as  yuh  has  et  my  grub,  an'  liked  it,  an'  although  I'm 
a  lone  gell,  an'  unpertected,  yuh  nor  no  guy  kin  tell 
me  my  business !  Take  yer  soot  case  an*  go ! 

THE  SLAVEY— Jimmy  McDoodle's  in  the  hall, 
an'  he's  got  a  souse  on,  Mis'  de  Shine.  He's  act- 
in'  real  rowdy  an'  says  he'll  shoot  his  wife ! 

AGGIE  DE  VERE  (Mrs.  McDoodle  in  private 
life) — Help !  help !  Oh,  save  me,  he'll  murder  me,  he 
said  he  would ! 

PETE  PICKEM  (the  landlady  has  temporarily  for- 
gotten him) — Slide  them  beans  acrost,  will  you?  An' 
the  dill  pickles.  Them  beans  looks  real  tasty. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Well,  GOOD  NIGHT! 
No  more  fur  mine!  You  kin  have  that  hall  bedroom 
what  ain't  been  swept  in  thirty  years,  an'  I'll  vamp 
out  of  here !  Here,  git  outer  my  way ! 

FIDO  (the  poodle) — Bow  wow!  wow-wow-wow! 

THE  END  MAN — Give  him  another  kick,  old  pal ! 
I  hope  he  chokes ! 

AGGIE  DE  VERE— Oh,  gells,  what'll  I  do?  Jim- 
my's turble  when  he's  stewed ! 

THE  SLAVEY — They's  a  big  fat  man  in  a  check 
soot  with  him,  an'  he  says  he's  the  boss  of  this  house. 

THE  LANDLADY— Does,  eh?  Susy,  that's  Bill  de 
Shine,  an'  I  know  it!  Call  a  cop  quick,  an'  warn  that 
guy  if  he  sets  a  foot  in  this  here  dinin'-room  he's 
dealin'  with  a  desprit  woming! 

THE  IRISH  COMEDIAN— I  guess  I'll  he  goin'. 
Never  did  like  to  mix  in  on  these  here  family  things. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (as  door  opens  and  red- 

78 


MR.  DE  SHINE'S  RETURN. 

faced  man  enters) — Don't  shove  me  like  that!       Look 
where  you're  goin'! 

JIMMY  M'DOODLE  (also  entering)— Where  is 
she  ?  Wait'll  I  ketch  Aggie !  She  was  seen  talkin' 
to  her  fust  husband  at  Fourteent'  an'  Third  avenoo  to- 
day, an'  I'll  cut  her  heart  out! 

ALL  THE  LADIES— Oh,  mercy!  He's  got  a 
knife !  Help !  Help ! 

AGGIE  DE  VERE— I'm  dyin',  I  know  I  am.  I 
was  only  talkin'  to  Fred  a  minuit ! 

THE  BUCK  DANCER— Another  dame  caught 
cheatin',  eh?  Oh,  they're  all  the  same. 

THE  LANDLADY — Leave  this  room,  yuh  miser- 
able coward,  what  I  tuck  from  a  First  avenoo  butcher 
shop  an'  made  a  gent  of,  an'  yuh  couldn't  stand  the 
gaff,  an'  now  yuh  dare  tuh  come  here,  do  yuh  ?  Git ! 

MR.  DE  SHINE  (loudly)— Don't  nobody  fret  me. 
I'm  peevish  if  I'm  interfered  with.  This  here  is  my 
house,  an'  I'm  a  goin'  to  stay  here  an'  run  it.  I  got 
some  rights. 

THE  LANDLADY— William,  don't  yuh  lay  a  hand 
on  me. 

AGGIE  DE  VERE— Oh,  farewell!  My  end  has 
came! 

ALL  THE  LADIES— These  here  men  is  a  fine 
bunch  to  do  nothin'  while  ladies  is  gettln'  killed. 

MR.  DE  SHINE  (producing  a  gun)— -Whee-ee! 

JIMMY  M'DOODLE  (also  heeled)— Whee-ee-ee ! 
Zip!  Bing! 

THE  LANDLADY— Mista  Johnson,  don't  let  'em 
put  this  here  place  on  the  cheese.  For  Gawd's  sake, 
save  us ! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (sullenly)— I  ain't  board- 
in'  here  no  more,  Maggie.  Lick  him  yourself. 

THE  BUCK  DANCER  (from  under  the  table)— 
Are  they  gone? 

THE  LANDLADY — Mista  Johnson,  yuh  kin  have 
anything  yuh  want  to  eat.  Won't  yuh  come  back? 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (seizing  both  belligerent 

79 


MR.  DE  SHINE'S  RETURN. 

gentlemen) — Out  you  get.  See?  You  will  come 
tryin'  to  be  roughhouse,  will  you?  Gimme  them 
guns!  GIMME  THEM  GUNS!  (He  soaks  each  in 
turn  with  a  heavy  fist.) 

MR.  DE  SHINE— I'm  goin'.  Lemme  out.  I  was 
only  kiddin'. 

AGGIE  DE  VERE— Don't  hurt  my  Jimmy,  you 
brute ! 

MILDRED  MOLAR— -Fine  for  you.  Gee!  They 
took  it  on  the  run,  all  right. 

THE  LANDLADY— Maggie  de  Shine  kin  never 
say  enough  tuh  thank  yuh. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Don't  say  nothin'.  Get 
them  chops  and  berries,  an'  get  'em  quick. 


The   Way   of    a   Music    Hall 
Song    Bird. 

DOTTY  ARLINGTON,  the  British  music  hall  queen,  was 
playing  a  limited  engagement  in  New  York.  The  stage 
manager  at  the  big  vaudeville  house  where  her  first 
week  was  booked  commented  on  Dotty  to  the  musical 
director,  before  the  Monday  rehearsal. 

"Tough  nut,  that,"  said  he,  "in  my  opinion.  When  I 
was  across,  I  heard  her  sing.  The  songs  were  too 
warm  for  this  country.  By  gosh,  we  won't  stand  for 
that  class  of  stuff  over  here." 

"She's  an  old  bat,  ain't  she?"  inquired  the  leader. 
"Been  hearing  about  her  since  I  was  a  kid." 

But  Dotty  wasn't  as  old  as  that.  In  her  child-wonder 
days  her  first  backer  had  named  her  after  a  reigning 
favorite  of  the  'alls,  and  the  name  had  caused  many  to 
consider  the  high-salaried  younger  woman  as  older  than 
her  age.  She  swept  into  rehearsal,  attended  by  "mom- 
mer,"  stout  and  very  British,  and  with  a  'orrid  'eadache, 
from  the  beastly  Yankee  wind. 

She  smiled  upon  the  leader  as  she  explained  about  her 
lead  sheets.  He  was  polite  and  careful.  "This  fairy 
with  the  bleached  blond  hair  won't  con  me,"  he  re- 
marked, aside,  to  Bill  Planana,  of  the  Three  Dancing 
Plananas.  "She  might  as  well  cut  that  smile..  I 
don't  fall  for  that  old  gag." 

Bill  Planana  said  she  wasn't  a  bad  looker,  though  with 
the  flossy  rags  off  she  wouldn't  stack  up  so  well. 

"I'll  bet  a  hat  that  ain't  her  mother,"  said  the  leader, 
before  the  matinee,  as  he  smoked  a  cigarette  out  on  the 
fire-escape. 

81 


WAY  OF  A  MUSIC  HALL  SONG  BIRD. 

"Gee,  she's  got  8,000  pounds  of  junk,"  said  the  stage 
manager.  "I  saw  'em  opening  a  jewel  case.  How  do 
they  get  'em?  The  gals  on  this  side  can't,  unless  they 
buy  'em.  That  sad  old  joke  about  the  show  women  and 
their  diamonds  seems  to  be  on  the  level  with  her. 
What's  her  s.ongs?" 

"Oh,  they're  all  right.  She  couldn't  use  the  same 
ones  here.  Well,  I  never  did  like  the  English."  The 
leader  hurried  out  front. 

"There's  one  lad  none  of  the  dames  can  get  a 
pleasant  look  from,"  chuckled  the  stage  manager. 
The  property  man  agreed.  "They're  havin'  tea  in 
their  dressin'-room,"  he  observed,  grinning  cheerfully- 
"Them  Johnny  Bulls  are  daffy  over  it,  ain't  they  ? 
She  says  the  steam  heat  is  killin'  'em." 

"I  guess  all  the  conveniences  they  get  in  English 
rooms  they  can  put  in  their  eye,"  said  the  stage  manager. 
"Never  saw  one  yet  who  wasn't  making  a  roar  about 
sumpin'." 


Dotty's  act  went  big.  She  was  clever,  and  worth  the 
money  she  was  getting  for  the  engagement.  The  songs 
were  perfectly  proper,  and  the  leader  decided  that  he 
might  have  misjudged  her.  She  had  a  childish  smile, 
which  finally  got  in  its  work  on  him.  The  house  was 
darkened  for  the  "pictures,"  the  last  turn  of  the  mat- 
inee, and  the  leader  signalled  his  first  violin  to  direct 
the  men  for  the  twenty  minutes. 

As  the  leader  was  on  his  way  out  he  passed  Dotty's 
dressing-room.  The  door  was  open.  Mommer,  a  garish 
figure  in  her  plain  black  gown,  covered  with  diamond 
birds  and  beasts,  and  curlicues,  and  intertwined  "D.  A.s" 
which  Dotty  would  later  assume  with  her  street  garments, 
was  there.  The  grease  paint  was  still  upon  Dotty's  fair 
cheeks,  as  she  combed  strenuously  at  her  frizzy  hair. 

"Ow,  ow  d'ye  do?"  she  called,  cordially.  "Coin"  'ome? 
You  'aven't  met  me  mommer.  Stop  a  bit." 

With  inimitable  grace  she  wiggled  her  silken  street 

82 


WAY  OF  A  MUSIC  HALL  SONG  BIRD. 

skirt  into  place,  pinned  the  bath  towel  more  closely  over 
her  chest,  with  maidenly  modesty,  and  motioned  him  to 
a  seat.  And  she  turned  on  the  ingenue  smile.  Mommer 
murmured  a  greeting. 

"I'm  absolutely  dyin'  with  the  'eat,"  said  the  poor 
lady  piteously.  "I  shall  'ave  to  lie  down  while  Dotty's 
out  to  dine." 

"We're  that  lonesome,"  confided  the  blooming  Dotty, 
"an'  fawncy  'aving  to  dine  alone,  as  I  shall  'ave  to  do! 
I  could  cry  me  eyes  out  with  'ome  sickness.  Nothink  'as 
been  a  bit  nice." 

The  leader  sternly  advised  himself  to  have  a  little  hoss 
sense.  This  duty  attended  to,  he  asked  Dotty  to  din- 
ner. The  stage  manager  was  proceeding  to  his  own 
home  as  they  went  out. 

"You'll  promise  to  bring  'er  back  sife — she's  not  used 
to  bein'  out  alone  with  gentlemen,"  said  mommer.  "Will 
you  'ave  the  ermines  or  the  syble  box  coat,  me  love?" 

"The  sybles,"  replied  Dotty. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned !"  breathed  the  stage  manager, 
as  the  leader  nodded  coolly  and  took  an  arm  of  the 
lonely  Dotty.  He  bought  a  bottle  of  wine  at  dinner  and 
thanked  fortune  that  he  had  a  ten  spot  in  his  pocket, 
which  he  had  intended  to  send  home  to  the  folks. 

Dotty  told  him  all  about  dear  Lunnon,  and  her  own 
booful  little  'ouse  in  South  Kensington,  and  the  motor 
car,  and  the  brougham  and  all  that. 

"When  I  was  last  over  I  was  a  wee  kiddie,  an'  the 
Four  'Undred  was  lovely  to  me,"  said  Dotty,  dreamily; 
"give  me  diamond  bricelets  an'  sweet  little  watches — 
I'm  lonely  with  no  attentions  being  pyde  me  this  trip." 

"How  old  were  you  then?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  twenty  now,"  said  Dotty,  diplomatically.  The 
leader  gazed  at  her  with  foolish  and  sudden  infatuation. 

"You  poor  dear  little  thing!"  he  said  fondly. 


The  affair  was  the  scandal  of  the  week.     The  leader 
crabbed  act  after  act,  because  his  mind  was  on  Dotty 

83 


WAY  OF  A  MUSIC  HALL  SONG  BIRD. 

He  offered  to  lick  the  stage  manager  and  kill  any  man 
who  again  asked  if  Dotty  hadn't  forgotten  to  wash  up 
before  going  out.  It  was  true  that  a  flush  of  brilliant 
carmine  shone  upon  the  pearl  of  her  complexion.  It  had 
shocked  the  leader  at  first,  but  he  grew  used  to  it,  and 
finally  liked  it.  He  made  wild  plans  to  capture  this 
British  daisy  and  bear  her  away,  where  he  and  she  would 
roam  through  life  together.  He  even  thought  he 
wouldn't  mind  mommer  coming  along,  'eadache  and  all. 

Every  time  Dotty  met'  him  she  told  him  how  depress- 
ing it  was  to  receive  not  a  single  jewel  hidden  in  a 
"bookay"  of  rare  flowers,  as  she  did  at  home.  On  Fri- 
day the  leader  drew  $308,  which  he  had  saved  for  a  trip 
to  green  fields  and  pastures  new  in  the  golden  Summer 
when  he  laid  off — and  exchanged  three  hundred  for  a 
handsome  diamond  ring.  The  eight  bought  the  roses. 
He  handed  them  over  with  a  velvet  box  to  Dotty  per- 
sonally at  the  night  show,  receiving  a  sweet  glance  in 
return. 

After  the  show  he  hustled  to  her  dressing-room.  She 
was  just  emerging,  clad  in  the  sybles  and  all  the  jewels. 
His  ring  sparkled  among  the  others  upon  her  left  hand. 
Three  men  were  with  her,  and  all  were  very  gay.  The 
leader  knew  them  all.  There  was  a  fresh  song-plugger 
with  an  elongated  nose,  a  noisy-looking  agent  and  a  side- 
walk comedian  who  sometimes  worked. 

"Dotty!"  called  the  leader,  shocked  to  see  his  shrink- 
ing pet  in  such  company. 

"Ow — 'owdy  do?"  said  she,  calmly.  "Come  on,  boys! 
I'll  buy  supper.  I  sye,  d'ye  remember  the  old  Koster  & 
Bial's  corkroom  when  I  was  over  before?  We  'ad  grite 
times!  Let's  all  get  jolly  well  soused,  as  you  say  over 
'ere!" 

They  went  out  shouting  merrily.     The  leader  swore. 

"Stung!"  said  he. 


84 


Dopey    Polly    Never    Reached 
the    Orchard. 

"THE  gang"  were  gathered  in  the  stuffy  back  room 
of  "Boston  Annie's"  resort  for  crooks  of  both  sexes. 
Boston  Annie  was  the  lady  friend  of  a  famous 
porchclimber  now  doing  his  bit  away  out  in  San- 
Quentin,  because  one  of  the  gang  had  squealed  on  the 
big  job  in  Frisco. 

The  crooks  considered  it  only  just  to  patronize  her 
establishment,  for  Annie  was  stuffing  all  her  profits 
in  her  stockings,  to  get  the  porchclimber  free,  if 
money  could  do  it. 

All  sort  of  riff-raff  drifted  in  to  the  bar  of  the  place, 
but  only  the  elect  dived  'suddenly  into  the  dark  alley 
off  Chatham  Square,  and  were  allowed  to  pass  the 
well-barred  door  from  which  led  a  damp,  narrow  pas- 
sageway to  the  sanctuary  in  the  rear  of  the  bar. 

Dude  Clanahan,  who  went  under  various  other 
names  up  around  Forty-second  street  and  Broadway, 
when  he  was  lining  up  a  live  one  for  the  good  old 
wiretapping  game,  sat  in  one  corner  with  Diamond 
Stella.  This  young  woman  was  a  "dip";  she  could 
abstract  the  contents  of  a  wallet,  replace  it,  minus 
the  bills,  while  one  waited,  conversing  brightly  mean- 
while upon  current  topics. 

The  Red  Swede,  who  was  a  yegg  man,  and  a  good 
one,  sat  over  a  pint  of  champagne  with  Dopey  Polly, 
from  Chinatown,  and  his  side  kick,  the  Runt.  The 
Swede  was  a  burly  chap,  and  the  Runt,  as  his  name 
implied,  was  small.  But  he  could  open  any  safe  he 
could  get  near.  In  his  profession  he  was  highly  re- 

85 


POLLY  NEVER  REACHED  THE  ORCHARD. 

spected  .while  the  Swede,  being  a  lush,  \\as  rathei 
looked  down  upon,  especially  since  he  had  taken  up 
with  a  useless  hop  fiend,  when  he  might  have  chosen 
any  one  of  a  number  of  ladies  of  real  talent  in  crook- 
dom,  instead  of  a  dead  one.  Boston  Annie  herself 
had  urged  him  to  quit  Dopey  Polly,  and  find  a  mate 
more  worthy. 

"Aw,  she's  goin'  tub  croak  soon,  Boston,"  said  the 
Swede.  "She's  got  the  con,  an'  payin'  her  board  ain't 
much.  Leave  her  alone,  can't  yer?" 

"You'll  be  hittin'  the  pipe,  too,"  said  Annie,  warn- 
ingly.  "I  ain't  got  no  use  fur  a  dame  what  can't  even 
stall  while  a  guy  gits  off  a  kettle  (watch).  Why,  she 
can't  get  her  hand  in  a  flour  barrel !" 

"I  know  she's  awful  ignorant,"  returned  the  Swede, 
apologetically,  "but  let  her  be."  The  Runt  liked 
Dopey  Polly.  She  was  a  forlorn  little  devil,  and  he 
felt  sorry  for  her.  She  used  to  tell  rambling  tales 
about  an  orchard,  and  some  pigs,  and  rot  like  that, 
and  of  a  town  in  the  mountains,  a  long  way  off,  where 
once,  long  ago,  she  had  lived.  No  one  listened  to  her 
but  the  Runt  and  the  Swede.  She  wasn't  really  the 
Swede's  "girl,"  but  the  rest  called  her  so,  and  he 
didn't  care. 

The  partners  had  picked  her  up  over  in  Doyer  street 
one  night,  and  the  Swede.,  drunk,  had  bought  her  a 
feed  of  chop  suey.  They  staked  her  to  a  couple  of 
dollars,  then  found  she  had  no  home,  just  "sort  of  hung 
around  the  hop  joints."  So  they  got  her  a  room,  up 
three  pairs  of  stairs,  and  on  off  nights  they  dropped 
round  and  took  her  out  to  see  life,  much  to  the  disgust 
of  the  fraternity. 

Big  Marie  had  been  getting  nasty,  and  laughing  at 
Dopey  Polly's  old  shoes.  Polly,  tears  in  her  worn- 
out  blue  eyes,  hid  her  feet  in  the  broken  shoes,  but  the 
Runt  rose  wrathfully. 

"Come  on,  Pol,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  didn't  never 
think !  We're  plenty  strong  in  the  kick,  an'  me  an' 
you'll  go  buy  tings  fur  youse.  Come  on,  kid,  don't 

86 


POLLY  NEVER  REACHED  THE  ORCHARD. 

mind  that  old  battleax — she's  daffy  'cause  she's  out 
longer'n  usual,  an'  ain't  been  mugged  fur  a  week." 
But  Dopey  Polly  was  weeping;  long,  convulsive  sobs 
shook  her  body. 

"Look  at  her!  Snivelin'  cry-baby!"  sneered  Big 
Marie.  She  had  once  made  a  play  for  the  Swede,  but 
he  couldn't  see  her.  One  on  each  side,  her  cham- 
pions lifted  Polly,  and,  recovering  herself,  she  smiled 
foolishly,  and  went  with  them. 

****** 

It  was  late,  but  the  cheap  stores  along  the  Bowery 
were  still  open.  The  trio  sought  one,  where  the  new 
shoes,  and  other  articles,  were  purchased.  Somehow, 
with  her  wardrobe  freshened,  Dopey  Polly  looked  a 
lot  better. 

"I  wisht,"  she  said  sadly,  "as  I  could  quit  the  pipe." 

"Aw,  yer  kin  break  away,  sister,"  said  the  Swede. 
"Say,  here's  a  grand  plan.  What's  tuh  stop  yer  goin' 
on  back  an'  findin'  the  pigs  an'  the  orchard,  hey  pal? 
We'll  stake  yer." 

"On  the  level?"  queried  Polly.  The  Runt  grew  en- 
thusiastic. "Let's  git  a  drink  in  Scotty  Lavelle's,  an' 
talk  it  over/'  said  he.  Half  an  hour  later  it  was  all 
framed  up.  They  had  around  a  hundred  coming  at  a 
fence  over  in  Mott  street.  The  Swede  bade  her  stern- 
ly to  pass  by  her  favorite  hop  joint,  next  Callahan's,  in 
Doyer  street,  and  wait  at  her  room  until  they  came 
with  the  money.  She  was  to  go  next  day,  and  "never 
come  back  no  more,"  as  said  the  Runt,  earnestly. 

The  fence  keeper  would  only  give  seventy,  and  they 
took  it.  As  they  turned  to  go  out  of  the  dingy  house, 
the  Runt  saw  the  man  shove  a  bundle  of  yellow-backs 
into  his  pocket.  A  roll  like  that  would  fix  Polly  in 
great  shape.  He  looked  at  the  Swede  and  saw 
that  he,  also,  had  seen  it.  The  Swede  nodded,  the 
Runt  grasped  his  meaning;  they  were  alone  with  the 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  and  it  would  be  quick  work. 
The  Swede  had  him  down  in  an  instant,  ramming  a 
big  hand  over  the  lips  that  tried  to  cry  out,  while  the 

87 


POLLY  NEVER  REACHED  THE  ORCHARD. 

Runt  "frisked"  him  for  the  roll  and  other  valuables. 

Quick !  Some  one  was  coming  from  upstairs !  And 
as  the  Runt  started  to  rise,  the  victim's  hand  shot  out. 
and  with  a  ripping  sound,  a  knife  tore  it's  way  towards 
the  thief's  heart.  The  Swede  had  the  knife  out  and 
was  viciously  stabbing  at  its  owner,  in  another  half 
minute,  then  supporting  the  Runt,  he  made  for  the 
door. 

"I'm  gone,  Oscar,"  muttered  the  Runt.  "He  got  me 
then.  Here's  the  coin,  git  away  while  youse  kin,  and 
see  that  poor  goil  gits  home.  I  can't — go  no — furder, 
ol'  pal,  the  stuff's  off  wit'  me !" 

They  were  around  the  corner,  with  the  Swede  carry- 
ing the  Runt,  as  he  fled  desperately,  hugging  the  shad- 
ows. A  whistle  blew,  and  then  a  club  pounded  on  the 
sidewalk. 

The  cops  were  after  them.  He  stopped,  in  a  dark 
hallway,  and  waited,  and  the  Runt  kept  groaning 
though  he  tried  not  to.  And  then,  without  warning, 
while  the  Swede  looked  out  cautiously,  a  billy,  wielded 
by  the  fearless  hand  of  the  Law,  cracked  him  on  the 
head  from  behind. 

"Got  'em,  Jack !"  called  the  big  copper,  panting  from 
the  effort  of  holding  his  breath  while  creeping  silently 
after  the  prey. 

The  Swede  was  down  and  out ;  the  Runt,  bleeding  to 
death,  had  fight  in  him,  but  the  hand  which  tried  to 
hold  up  his  gun  wobbled,  and  the  copper's  partner 
grabbed  it. 

"The  fly  mugs.  Here's  the  finish !"  gasped  the 
Runt,  faintly,  as  the  sound  of  men  running  smote  upon 
his  ears,  while  the  policemen  yanked  the  Swede  out 
into  the  light. 

"He'll  swing  for  this,"  and  the  big  copper  slipped 
the  bracelets  over  the  Swede's  limp  wrists,  and  then 
hastily  felt  for  weapons. 


The  Runt  was  dying,  even  before   the  ambulance 

88 


POLLY  NEVER  REACHED  THE  ORCHARD. 

could  arrive.  He  was  calling  for  the  Swede,  so  the 
latter,  dazed,  but  able  to  stand,  was  hustled  over  to 
where  he  lay. 

"They  got  yuse,  Red?"  whispered  the  Runt,  bitterly. 
"Say,  she's  waitin',  an'  t'inks  we  trun  her  down  'bout 
them  pigs  an'  the  orchard!  Ain't  it  hell?"  He  began 
to  cry  weakly.  The  Swede  knelt  down,  and  patted 
the  Runt  with  his  manacled  hands.  "Die  game,  pal," 
he  said.  "Don't  let  the  cops  see  yer  weaken,  Runt." 

But  the  Runt's  light  had  snuffed  out.  The  Swede 
stumbled  to  his  feet,  a  copper  on  either  side. 

"AYho'd  he  mean,  your  gal?"  asked  the  big  one, 
curiously. 

"Didn't  mean  nawtin',"  responded  the  Swede, 
fiercely.  "I  don't  have  no  skirts  round  me." 


"Come  out  o'  that !"  and  the  Chinatown  copper  prod- 
ded a  heap  of  humanity  huddled  by  some  steps  next 
the  Chinese  grocery  in  Pell  street.  They  had  thrown 
Dopey  Polly  out  of  the  hop  joint,  because  she  was 
crying  all  over  the  place.  Now  she  told  the  copper 
a  disconnected  story  of  an  orchard  and  a  pig,  and  how 
the  Swede  hadn't  made  good. 

"You  got  'em  bad,  woman,"  said  he,  finally.  "I 
guess  I'll  have  to  lock  you  up." 


Making  a  Prince  Into  a  Good 
Sport. 

"I  DON'T  care  if  he's  the  German  emperor,  no  guy's 
going  out  with  me  that  calls  me  'my  good  man'!" 
shouted  Fraser  River  Charlie,  "so  tell  him  that,  and 
the  brag  goes."  Old  Man  McPherson  sighed.  "He's 
only  a  fool  tenderfoot,  Charlie,"  said  he,  "and  we'll 
soak  him  hard  for  the  trip.  We  got  to  do  it." 

"Not  fur  me !"  said  Charlie,  stubbornly.  "Prince  or 
no  prince,  he  don't  go.  He's  in  luck  I  didn't  hand  him 
one.  I'm  nobody's  servant." 

"Law,  anybody  knows  that,"  said  Mac  gently. 
"Why,  he'll  be  amusin'  when  we  get  out  in  the  hills. 
Them  people  allus  make  me  laugh,  son.  It's  all  in 
how  you  take  a  thing.  We're  gettin'  better  money 
than  any  other  guides  in  the  country  from  the  Cooley 
boys,  and  there  'tis." 

"I  kin  go  back  punchin'  cows,"  growled  Charlie,  "or 
back  North  an'  wash  out  enough  placer  minin'  to  get 
along.  I  aint  forced  to  stick  here." 

"Be  a  good  feller,"  urged  Mac.  "I  don't  want  to 
find  no  new  pard,  son.  You  and  me  been  good 
friends."  Charlie's  face  lost  it's  frown. 

"Sure,  I'll  go — fur  you,"  he  replied,  "but  it  ain't 
for  that  tow-headed  prince  guy." 

"Now,  you're  talkin/ "  said  Mac,  approvingly. 
"That's  the  stuff !" 

The  two  young  princes  of  a  certain  German  state 

90 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

were  on  a  trio  around  the  world.  They  had  been  en- 
tertained in  almost  royal  state  by  the  Governor  Gen- 
eral of  Canada,  at  Ottawa,  then  started  west  toward 
the  Pacific,  landing  at  Laggan,  in  Alberta.  Back  in 
Ottawa  they  had  listened  to  tales  of  the  "Big  Horn" 
country,  where  grizzlies,  moose  and  elk  roamed 
through  the  forests,  and  nimble  Rocky  Mountain  goats 
scooted  over  the  rocks. 

The  Cooley  Brothers  outfitted  tourists  who  came  to 
hunt.  They  gave  them  anything  their  innocent  hearts 
desired  as  long  as  the  tourist  settled.  It  came  high, 
but  the  Cooleys  declared  that  handling  tenderfeet  was 
worth  big  money.  Now  the  royal  gentlemen  had  ar- 
rived, having  neglected  to  notify  the  Cooleys  of  their 
coming,  and  both  brothers  were  off  on  the  trail  for  a 
two-week  stay  overseeing  a  large  party.  Charlie,  much 
fretted  as  to  the  correct  manner  in  which  to  receive 
the  visitors,  had  done  his  best  to  please  them,  by  offer- 
ing to  domicile  them  in  Buck  Cooley's  own  house,  in 
which  he  kept  bachelor  hall,  and  immediately  com- 
manding Jim  Moy,  the  Chinese  cook,  to  hustle  up 
grub. 

"You  see,  your  honors,"  said  he,  "or  perhaps  I 
should  say,  my  lord,  we  don't  get  many  up  here.  We'd 
have  been  all  set  if  we'd  known  you  was  comin',  but 
I  reckon  you  kin  plug  along  on  what  we  got.  Any- 
thing you  want  that  you  don't  see  handy,  just  holler 
out.  Feel  like  a  drink?" 

The  members  of  the  royal  party  were  shocked.  "His 
Highness  Prince  Adelbert  will  partake  of  some  wine 
later,"  said  Colonel  Von  Weiss,  a  yellow-haired,  wasp- 
waisted  person,  who  came  between  his  masters  and  a 
cold  world  on  all  occasions.  "You  may  address  your 
remarks  to  me,  and  not  quite  so  familiar,  my  good 
man."  His  Highness,  although  fatigued,  condescend- 
ed to  cast  a  languid,  pale  blue  eye  upon  the  rebuked 

91 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

Charlie.  "The  hell  you  say!"  exclaimed  the  latter 
hotly.  "Well,  you'll  wait  awhile  before  you're  ast 
again." 

Thereupon  he  slammed  the  door  of  Cooley  Brothers' 
warehouse  upon  the  august  tourists,  leaving  them 
homeless  upon  a  sun-baked  road,  with  only  a  few  full- 
blood  Stoney  Indians  for  company. 

Billy  Fat  Belly,  very  dirty  in  his  calico  shirt  and 
overalls  and  sloppy  mocassins,  gazed  at  the  astounded 
Germans  with  a  foolish  stare.  Then  he  slowly  disap- 
peared around  the  corner  of  the  building,  after  listen- 
ing a  moment  to  the  excited  conversation  of  the  travel- 
ers. The  stupid  air  faded  when  he  met  Mac.  "Say, 
big  bunch  of  folks  out  in  front,"  he  said.  "Charlie  told 
'em  to  go  to  hell.  He  done  right,  too.  Feller  wouldn't 
take  a  drink  with  him.  They  say  the're  kings,  or  some 
such  a  thing." 

Mac  knew  the  Vancouver  express  had  stopped,  and 
that  several  people  had  got  off.  "Kings!"  he  said, 
scornfully.  "You've  set  in  the  sun  till  it's  got  you 
crazy,  Fat  Belly." 

Fat  Belly,  injured,  declined  to  answer,  but  he  loafed 
along  behind  when  Mac  hurried  out.  It  took  a  few 
minutes  for  the  latter  and  the  enraged  military  guard- 
ian to  understand  each  other,  but  Mac  had  handled 
Indians  and  whites  in  wartime  and  peace,  all  his  long 
life,  and  his  diplomatic  explanations  as  to  hot-headed 
youth  and  Far  Western  customs  soothed  the  colonel's 
ruffled  dignity.  He  settled  them  in  the  house,  encour- 
aged all  the  ten  gentlemen  in  attendance  to  disconnect 
from  the  large  revolvers  they  carried,  having  come 
well  heeled  to  a  savage  clime,  and  interviewed  Charlie 
a  little  later. 

"How  many  packers  you  going  to  take?"  asked 
Charlie.  "They  got  a  million  bags  and  trunks  up  there 
at  the  deppo."  Mac  said  they'd  see  about  it 

92 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

He  made  a  ceremonious  call  after  supper.  "Now, 
who-all's  going  huntin'?"  he  asked.  The  colonel  said 
all  of  them  simply  must  go.  "In  Africa  we  have  a 
grand  hunt,"  said  he,  quite  socially,  feeling  it  were  best 
to  jolly  these  rude  men  a  bit.  "Elephants  and  lions. 
Prince  Wilhelm  had  splendid  luck.  The  beaters  drove 
out  a  lion,  and  when  it  had  several  shots  in,  and  was 
quite  safe,  His  Highness  boldly  walked  up  and  fired, 
killing  the  lion.  Marvelous,  was  it  not?" 

Mac  agreed  it  was  not.  He  made  several  private 
notes,  none  of  them  complimentary  to  the  two  princes, 
then  stuffing  themselves  at  a  plentiful  meal. 

"Well,  lemme  see  how  many  saddle  and  pack  horses 
you  want  ?"  began  Mac. 

A  stout  German  emitted  a  frightened  cry.  Horses, 
he  declared,  were  not  for  him.  In  a  hansom,  or  any 
comfortable  vehicle,  yes,  or  why  not,  he  naively  in- 
quired, a  litter  such  as  they  had  ridden  in  while  at  Lake 
Victoria-Nyanza  ? 

Prince  Adelbert  roused  himself.  "Ourselves,  Von 
Weiss  and  Franz  and  Emil  shall  go,"  said  he,  "the  rest 
remain  here.  I  am  sick  of  seeing  them.  Find  my  ele- 
phant gun." 

"And  mine,"  cried  Prince  Wilhehn,  gleefully.  "Ach, 
Gott,  I  shall  another  kill  to  mein  fadder  show,  no?" 

Mac  endeavored  to  persuade  the  daring  sportsmen 
that  elephant  guns  were  not  exactly  the  weapon  for 
mountain  shooting  in  the  far  Norhwest,  but  Adelbert 
imperiously  insisted  that  the  guns  would  go.  That 
night  Charlie,  Mac,  Billy  Fat  Belly  and  Cree  Sam,  an 
Indian  guide  from  Assiniboia  Territory,  looked  over 
the  royal  outfit.  Sleeping  bags  of  German  make, 
heavy  enough  for  a  climate  north  of  .53,  pneumatic  air 
mattresses,  rubber  ponchos  and  air  pillows,  canvas 
hammocks  suitable  for  ship  or  tropical  use,  fishing 

93 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

rods,  gold  mounted  and  in  heavy  cases,  and  a  dozen 
shotguns,  wonderfully  put  together,  expensive,  no 
doubt,  but  scorned  by  any  man  who  shoots  straight 
enough  with  one  bullet  to  hit  his  mark;  all  these  were 
there. 

"It  is  I  provide  these,"  proudly  observed  the  colonel, 
stepping  lightly  over  the  various  piles.  "Here  iss  a 
machete  to  cut  a  way  through  jungles.  Here  an  ice 
axe  and  Alpenstocks,  from  Mon*  Blanc  itself,  my  good 
— that  is,  Herr  Mack.  Acids  I  have  and  limewater,  to 
ward  off  scurvy.  Also  potatoes,  excellent,  I  am  told, 
for  the  same  disease.  Four  kegs  of  Wurtemburg  sau- 
erkraut, Prince  Adelbert's  own  golden  tea  service, 
these  must  all  go ;  also  their  highnesses'  twelve  shoot- 
ing suits.  They  have  many  more,  but  I  think  we  can 
get  on." 

Billy  Fat  Belly  turned  his  head  away.  His  rotund 
stomach  shook,  and  he  seemed  about  to  choke.  "The 
native,"  said  the  Colonel,  fixing  Billy  with  his  monocle, 
"appears  unwell." 

"Quit  that,  Fat  Belly,  you  fool !"  admonished  Mac. 
Billy  snickered.  "I'm  going  out  to  find  the  elephants," 
he  said,  and  fled 

"Odd  savage,"  remarked  the  colonel. 

Mac  and  Charlie  sat  in  the  bunkhouse  smoking  and 
talking  until  nearly  midnight.  The  Cooley  Brothers' 
system  was  to  let  the  tenderfeet  have  what  they  want- 
ed, and  have  it  in  any  shape.  The  charge  for  a  hunter 
who  really  knew  what  he  was  about  was  ordinarily  ten 
to  fifteen  dollars  a  day.  This  included  a  horse  and  sad- 
dle, grub  and  sleeping  accommodations.  If  he  wanted 
fancy  grub  and  tablecloths,  or  even  a  lace  bedspread, 
he  got  it,  but  he  had  to  pay  more.  One  guide  to  every 
four  persons  was  the  rule. 

But  if  a  sportsman  desired  the  whole  time  of  the 

94 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

guide,  he  could  have  it,  and  it  cost  'eight  a  day  more. 
The  royal  party  was  one  that  ordinary  prices  would 
not  fit.  Already  a  list  of  food  which  the  princes  must 
have  had  been  submitted  by  the  colonel. 

"As  Buck  ain't  here,  we  got  to  do  the  dickerin'  "  said 
Charlie.  "This  is  sure  goin'  to  be  one  tough  game. 
Luggin'  all  that  truck'll  take  ten  extra  animals.  I 
think  princes  like  them  guys  oughter  be  shot  before 
they  get  growed." 

"How  about  them  elephant  guns?"  queried  Mac 
anxiously.  "They'e  set  on  takin'  'em.  That  there 
stand  they  rest  'em  on  weighs  a  ton.  How  in  Billy  be 
damned  we  kin  get  sich  a  thing  on  a  cayuse's  back, 
goin'  over  rough  trail,  is  more'n  I  kin  see." 

From  the  guests'  quarters  came  the  whiney  sound  of 
a  violin.  Some  one  was  playing  a  Strauss  waltz,  while 
many  voices  yodeled  in  German.  Charlie  laughed. 
"The  idea  of  a  mob  like  that  havin'  money,"  said  he. 
"Not  one  of  'em  ever  did  a  good  day's  work  in  his  life. 
I  see  one  way  to  carry  the  guns." 

The  next  day  was  spent  in  gettinng  the  animals 
down  from  their  range  on  the  Bow  River,  and  sacking 
supplies.  The  enormous  amount  of  stuff  which  the 
tourists  calmly  ordered  taken  made  up  an  outfit  which 
required  the  services  of  several  packers.  The  tourists 
lolled  about  in  the  warmth  of  a  June  day.  Mac  had  ex- 
toled  the  beauties  of  Lake  Louise  and  Mount  Lefray  to 
them,  but  the  Colonel  said  they  wanted  wilderness,  and 
lots  of  it.  He  had  been  told  the  Herr  Cooleys  often 
penetrated  hundreds  of  miles  into  the  untrodden  for- 
ests of  Athabasca.  It  was  there  they  would  go. 

"Well,  he'll  get  all  he  wants,"  remarked  Mac,  "and 
if  she  starts  a  snowin,'  we'll  have  a  picnic.  I  bet  they 
got  no  more  idee  of  a  real  wilderness  than  I  have  of 
flyin'  " 

The  Colonel  kindly  regaled  Charlie  with  a  few  tales 

95 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

of  his  own  exploits  at  hunting  the  boar  in  the  Black 
Forest.  He  had  also  a  terrifying  record  at  bagging 
pheasants  in  His  Majesty's  preserves.  He  yearned  to 
connect  with  a  grizzly,  and  the  fiercer  the  bear  the  bet- 
ter he'd  like  it. 

Loaded  like  an  emigrant  train  crossing  the  plains, 
the  party  took  the  trail  to  the  hills  next  day.  Two 
days  later  found  them  camped  in  Kicking  Horse  Pass, 
with  the  royal  tourists  down  and  out.  Prince  WU- 
helm,  when  helped  from  the  saddle  by  his  valet,  a 
lanky  Swiss,  called  for  a  meal  at  once.  ''You  will 
serve  me  first !"  said  he. 

"I  am  first,  mein  brudder!"  exclaimed  Prince  Adel- 
bert.  "I  am  the  elder.  Be  silent." 

An  exciting  scene  followed,  for  Prince  Wilhelm 
smote  his  relative  violently  on  the  nose,  causing  it  to 
bleed.  Then  Adelbert  bit  his  brother's  left  ear,  and 
the  Colonel,  in  separating  them,  came  in  for  a  kick  in 
the  shins.  The  battle  over,  a  fractious  buckskin  horse 
tangled  its  feet  in  a  cinch  rope,  and  whirled  wildly 
about,  landing  heavily  upon  the  cherished  elephant 
guns.  "Hey,  Fat  Belly,  ketch  them  cayuses  before 
they  stampede!"  roared  Mac,  jumping  for  the  buck- 
skin, which  started  for  the  royal  tent,  just  erected. 
The  horse  bolted  through  the  opening,  upset  Adelbert, 
who  was  washing  the  gore  from  his  face,  and  down 
came  the  tent,  with  horse  and  prince  sending  forth 
weird  cries  from  underneath  it. 

"I  want  to  go  home!"  wailed  Adelbert,  when  they 
got  him  safely  out. 

"Gott  in  Himmel,  it  is  snowing!  And  in  June! 
This  is  an  outrage !"  yelled  the  Colonel. 

"I'll  send  word  up  and  have  'it  stopped!"  said 
Charlie  shortly.  "Now,  you  have  them  kids  shut  up 
that  row.  Want  to  scare  all  the  hosses  off?  Ten  of 
'em's  headin'  for  home  now." 

96 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

"Do  not  dare  to  order  me  about,  sir!"  retorted  the 
Colonel  spiritedly.  "Get  more  horses,  then.  And 
bring  dinner.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Say,  I'll  hand  him  a  wallop  in  a  minute,"  muttered 
Charlie  to  Mac.  "A  whole  outfit  upset  and  him 
shootin'  off  his  mouth  at  me,  who  forgot  more'n  he 
ever  knowed." 

Billy  Fat  Belly  and  his  Indians  were  loping  down 
the  canyon,  trying  to  get  in  front  of  the  fleeing  ani- 
mals, which  had  got  away  during  the  buckskin's  dis- 
graceful conduct.  The  two-gallon  can  of  royal  sauer- 
kraut, which  had  made  as  much  trouble  as  the  dis- 
abled elephant  guns,  was  a  wreck.  A  horse  had  kick- 
ed a  hole  in  it,  and  maple  syrup  from  a  broken  bottle 
had  mingled  with  the  delicacy. 

The  Colonel  wept  when  he  saw  it,  and  he  ate  a  little 
sadly  hoping  it  wasn't  quite  spoiled.  The  three  air 
mattresses  wouldn't  blow  up  for  some  reason.  Four 
Indians  and  the  valets  worked  at  them  while  the 
Chinese  cook  got  supper  at  a  big  fire.  The  snow 
turned  to  a  drizzling  rain. 

At  six  it  was  dark,  with  the  wind  howling  among 
the  tents,  sending  smoke  into  their  faces  and  blowing 
out  candles  as  soon  as  lit.  Prince  Wilhelm,  in  a 
heavy  coat,  scurried  to  the  fire.  He  was  most  un- 
happy. Moving  about  to  escape  the  smoke,  the  royal 
foot  hit  a  big  coffee  pot  heating  on  some  coals.  Over 
it  went  into  a  pail  of  rice,  and  Jim  Moy's  pan  of  frying 
fish.  "Gee  Cli !"  squealed  Moy,  darting  forward 
with  a  pan  of  venison  in  one  hand.  "What  molly 
you  ?  Gettee  'way,  gettee  'way,  heap  damn  fool !  Me 
cookee.  No  want  flesh  butt-ins  'round !" 

Wilhelm  would  stand  no  more.  He  hurled  a  rock 
at  Jim  Moy  with  many  oaths.  Promptly  Moy  lam- 
med him  with  the  pan  of  meat.  Every  man  in  camp 

97 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

rushed  for  the  pair,  but  the  prince  had  a  black  eye  be- 
fore Mac  dragged  the  furions  Moy  away. 

"I  will  have  mine  uncle  make  a  war  on  this  coun- 
try!" yelled  Wilhelm.  "Unhand  me,  swine!" 

"Here,  cut  that  talk  out,  you  little  runt !"  said  Mac, 
sternly,  as  he  cuffed  the  royal  ear.  You're  in  a  white 
man's  country  now.  Don't  you  be  so  gay  or  I'll  warm 
your  hide  good." 

The  camp  was  demoralized.  Everybody  favored 
spanking  the  two  princes  on  general  principles.  Adel- 
bert  demanded  that  he  be  taken  back  to  the  railroad 
that  instant. 

"If  you  go  you'll  forfeit  what  you  paid  down  for  a 
month's  trip,"  said  Mac,  sternly.  "Behave  yourself 
and  you'll  get  a  good  deal,  but  if  you  get  gay  I'll  treat 
you  like  I  would  a  hoss  thief.  G'wan  to  your  tent. 
You'll  eat  when  it's  ready.  Savvy?" 

"I  shall  report  your  actions!"  shouted  the  valiant 
Colonel,  rallying  to  his  prince's  side.  "Bring  the  food 
now!  Now!  Do  you  hear?  Yes,  your  Highness  !" 

"I  have  a  pain  in  my  toe!"  Wilhelm's  face  was  full 
of  woe.  "At  once  it  must  be  massaged !" 

"Yes,  your  Highness ;  I  will  see  to  it,"  answered  the 
dutiful  Colonel.  Billy  Fat  Belly  had  brought  the  ani- 
mals back.  He  listened  attentively. 

"These  is  worse'n  wimmen !"  he  said  shaking  his 
head.  Charlie  poked  Mac  in  the  back.  "Do  they  still 
amuse  you,  pardy?"  he  whispered.  "The're  makin' 
one  big  hit  with  me,  all  right.  I  just  been  over  diggin' 
out  a  dressin'  gown  'for  his  nibs,  Mr.  Adelbert.  He's 
cryin'  for  his  maw." 

Jim  Moy  declared  he  would  not  cook  for  the  chas- 
tened Wilhelm,  who  had  retired  into  his  tent,  but  Mac 
finally,  at  8  o'clock,  got  the  grub  dished  up.  The  pay- 
ing guests  ate  sulkily  inside  the  big  wall  tent.  The 
valets  moved  about  uncomfortably  outside  in  the  rain. 
One  explained  to  Mac  that  he  dared  not  stay  inside 

98 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

nor  stray  out  of  call.  The  Colonel  would  whip  him  if 
he  did. 

Mac  rigged  a  shelter  for  the  wretched  serving  men, 
cheering  them  with  a  hot  meal  and  a  few  swigs  of 
rye.  The  guides  had  covered  the  baggage  with  canvas 
and  sent  the  horses  up  the  creek  to  graze  on  bunch 
grass.  Now  they  huddled  under  little  tepee  tents  eat- 
ing and  discussing  the  amiable  party  in  the  big  tent. 
Fat  Belly  camped  with  Mac  and  Charlie,  being  an  edu- 
cated Stoney. 

"They  kin  go  as  far  as  they  like  short  of  killin/  " 
observed  Mac.  "That's  what  we  get  paid  for.  But 
I'm  sure  go  in'  to  teach  that  outfit  Western  ways  before 
they  hit  the  tote  road  for  home.  Wach  me !" 

"I  never  see  such  a  onery  bunch,"  said  Fat  Belly. 
"Kings  don't  set  well  on  my  stummick.  Come  on  in, 
Moy.  All  through  ?" 

The  cook,  damp  and  cold,  crawled  in,  holding  the 
tent  flap  against  the  rain.  "You're  the  fightin'  Chink, 
all  right !"  declared  Charlie,  with  a  grin.  "Well,  sir,  I 
was  mad  clear  through,  but  I  had  to  laugh  at  that." 

"Plince  makee  me  sick,"  growled  Moy.    "No  good." 

"They'll  play  hell  crossin'  the  big  summits.  I  kin 
hear  'em  hollerin,"  observed  Mac.  "But  I  allow  I'll 
make  'em  act  as  if  they  liked  it.  They  got  my  mad  up 
now,  son." 

"Pleese  to  come  out,"  said  a  voice  entreating  from 
the  darkness  outside.  It  was  Emil,  the  German  valet. 
He  reported  that  the  doughty  Colonel  was  fn  deadly 
fear  of  wild  animals.  He  must  have  an  armed  guard 
about  the  tent. 

"Animals  are  more  afraid  of  him  than  he  is  of 
them,"  and  Charlie  got  up. 

"Pleese,  I  t'ink  not,  excellency,"  replied  Emil,  timid- 
ly. "Becos  he  very  mooch  afraid.'' 

"Elephant  hunters,  hey !"  said  Mac.  "They're  birds, 
they  are.  Tell  him  we'll  fix  it.  He  kin  set  down  on 
my  lap  if  he'll  feel  easier."  Much  relieved,  Emil  slop- 
ped away  through  the  wet. 

99 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

Fat  Belly  and  Charlie  agreed  to  reassure  their 
charges.  Arrived  at  the  tent,  they  unceremoniously 
entered.  Both  princes,  in  red  quilted  satin  dressing 
gowns,  were  perched  on  camp  stools,  shivering,  their 
feet  drawn  up  from  the  damp  ground. 

The  Colonel,  mindful  of  etiquette,  wore  his  riding 
boots  and  trousers,  with  a  dress  shirt  and  tie  and  a  red 
hunting  coat.  He  was  doing  his  best  for  his  royal 
masters.  He  handed  them  one  article  of  food  at  a 
time.  Billy  Fat  Belly  was  enchanted  with  the  Col- 
onel's neat  make-up.  He  squatted  upon  a  prece  of  can- 
vas, allowing  Charlie  to  talk.  'The  latter  proceeded  to 
arrange  the  tent's  contents.  He  spread  a  tarpaulin 
on  the  ground,  covering  it  with  a  bearskin  rug  which 
he  bade  Fat  Belly  get  from  a  pack.  The  princes,  gaz- 
ing at  him  in  a  frightened  manner,  slowly  untwisted 
their  legs  and  sat  down  on  the  warm  skin.  They  con- 
sulted in  whispers,  and  seemed  to  have  lost  much  of 
their  earlier  hauteur. 

"Ask  him  about  the  elephant  guns,  Adolph,"  whis- 
pered Wilhelm. 

The  Colonel  obeyed.  "Well,  I  s'pose  1  can  tinker 
'em  up,"  replied  Charlie,  "but  look  out,  that  candle'll 
go  out  if  you  set  it  there ! — between  you  and  me,  you 
know,  they're  lobsters  in  this  country.  Take  a  fool's 
advice,  and  let  one  of  the  Injuns  take  'em  back  to  Lag- 
gan.  But  suit  yourselves.  I  don't  care." 

Wilhelm  turned  his  swollen  optic  on  Charlie.  "I 
haf  lofe  that  gun,"  he  said.  "I  lofe  it.  But  this  is  a 
strange  place.  Take  it,  then.  I  have  pains  mit  me. 
from  riding  on  that  animal  which  will  not  trot.  He 
runs  much." 

"I  am  also  most  sick  with  ache,"  put  in  Adelbert, 
gloomily,  "in  my  legs.  Und  cold  I  am." 

It  became  quite  sociable  with  this  general  conversa- 
tion going  on.  The  faithful  valets  were  summoned 
to  rub  the  royal  legs.  Then  Charlie  put  aside  personal 
feelings  and  handed  out  a  few  heart-to-heart  remarks. 
The  party  listened  attentively  as  he  informed  them 

100 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

that  three-quarters  of  the  Colonel's  plunder  was  a  use- 
less drag  on  the  expedition.  If  they  would,  the  In- 
dians should  take  the  excess  back.  They  could  then 
travel  light  and  take  some  comfort.  He  went  out  and 
fetched  a  bottle  of  rye,  and  although  the  Colonel  said 
he  couldn't  drink  American  whisky,  he  partook  liberal- 
ly. Charlie  left  Fat  Belly,  with  a  30-30  on  his  knees, 
on  guard. 

"Say,  I  got  'em  eatin'  out  of  the  hand  already/'  he 
told  Mac  gleefully,  when  he  had  joined  his  partner. 

In  the  morning  it  was  clear  and  cold.  After  break- 
fast the  princes,  not  quite  so  friendly,  but  still  fairly 
civil,  selected  what  should  go  back.  Four  packloads 
went. 

They  broke  camp,  traveling  east.  Mac  had  decided 
that  before  going  north  they  would  try  the  tourists 
out  nearer  home.  They  stopped  at  noon  half  way  up  a 
small  summit.  The  saw  edged,  barren  mountains  of 
the  Desolation  Range  lay  to  the  east  in  a  blue  haze. 
Below  the  riders,  packhorses  toiled  up  the  slope  bear- 
ing the  still  unwieldly  baggage. 

Adelbert  became  grouchy.  He  announced  that  he 
would  sleep,  no  matter  what  happened,  and  if  there 
was  no  feed  for  the  horses,  or  water,  he  didn't  care  a 
hang.  "I  am  the  prince,"  he  ended,  grandly. 

"Can't  stay  here,"  objected  Mac.  "We  got  to  get 
down  the  other  side,  to  wood  and  water." 

The  Colonel  had  been  quiet.  Now  he  raised  his 
voice  noisely. 

"If  the  prince  commands,  we  stay !"  he  shouted. 

"No,  we  don't!"  said  Mac.    "We  march,  we  do." 

A  loud  argument  began,  but  Mac  won.  The  outfit 
went  slipping  down  the  slide  rock,  which  rattled  into 
the  valley  beneath. 

Wilhelm  suddenly  lost  his  nerve.  "I  cannot  look 
down !  I  am  sick  in  my  inside !"  he  announced. 

Charlie  threw  a  hackamore  over  his  horse's  head  and 
led  the  nervous  passenger  until  they  reached  the  level 
ground.  , 

101 


MAKING  A  PRINCE  INTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

"Holy  Moses!  A  grizzly,  and  not  a  hundred  feet 
away !"  Mac  was  excited.  He  pointed  to  some  rocks. 

"Get  your  guns,  if  you  want  a  bear,"  he  warned. 

The  daring  Germans  took  one  look ;  then  all  together 
they  began  to  run,  but  not  toward  the  bear,  which 
growled  ferociously  when  it  saw  the  men. 

Fat  Belly  potted  it,  while  Charlie  rounded  up  the 
panic-stricken  hunters.  "Well,  Til  be  darned!"  said 
Mac,  disgustedly.  "The  measly  cowards.  Run  from 
a  bear !  And  they  come  out  to  hunt  'em !" 

That  night  yells  came  from  the  big  tent.  A  woodrat 
had  scuttled  over  Wilhelm's  couch,  and  he  was  crazy 
with  fear  It  awakened  everyone.  Then,  before  dawn, 
a  little  pica  (hare)  gnawed  at  a  tent  rope  and  Adelbert 
howled  for  help.  "We  might  as  well  sit  up  nights  after 
this,"  scolded  Mac.  In  the  morning  the  Colonel  got 
cold  feet.  He  said  he  didn't  care  what  happened,  he 
couldn't  stand  any  more,  and  he  was  going  home. 
Adelbert  joyfully  said  he'd  go,  too. 

It  was  up  to  Wilhelm.  He  looked  at  Mac.  "I  am 
weary — yes,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  am  going  to  keep  on. 
Soon  I  shall  afraid  not  be." 

"Bully  for  you,  kid !"  said  Charlie,  heartily.  He  held 
out  a  hand,  and  Wilhelm  took  it.  "You  got  good  stuff 
in  you!"  Mac's  tone  was  approving.  "Stick  to  us, 
and  we'll  see  you  get  a  bear  yet."  The  others  went 
dolefully  back,  with  Charlie  in  charge. 

Mac,  Fat  Belly  and  Wilhelm  went  forward. 


Six  weeks  later  three  men  loped  down  the  valley  of 
the  Bow  toward  Laggan.  They  drove  two  packhorses 
loaded  with  mountain  sheep  horns  and  various  skins 
ahead.  Arrived  in  town,  the  yellow-haired  young  man 
jumped  down  first.  He  began  uncinching  packropes, 
working  hard. 

"Stand  still, ,  you  !"  he  admonished. 

"Say,  Bill,  you  fool,  you  got  the  wrong  Tope,"  called 
Mac.  "Bet  you  a  dollar  you  have !" 

102 


MAKING  A  PRINCEJNTO  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

"Bet  a  dollar  I  ain't!"  returned  Prince  Wilhelm. 
"Did  I  not  pack  him?  I'm  glad  its  not  my  turn  to 
cook  to-night.  It's  Fat  Belly's. 

"Yes,  and  we're  home.  That's  one  on  you !"  laughed 
Fat  Belly. 

"Now,  what  can  I  do  to  help,  boys?"  asked  Prince 
Wilhelm,  cheerfully.  "I  know.  I'll  run  the  horses 
down  to  the  meadow." 

"Don't  be  long,  Bill !"  said  Fat  Belly.  "  'Cause  we're 
goin'  to  get  a  drink." 

"I'll  come  a-running,"  yelled  Prince  Wilhelm,  chas- 
ing the  horses  down  the  road. 

Mac  laughed.  "You  can  even  make  a  good  fellow 
out  of  a  prince  if  you  got  him  out'n  the  hills,"  said  he. 

"You  bet !"  said  Fat  Belly. 

Prince  Adelbert  and  the  suite  received  the  hunters 
an  hour  later.  The  Cooleys  had  fed  the  former  well,  and 
arranged  ladylike  trips  hunting  jackrabbits  and  chip- 
monks,  a  safe  pursuit. 

"I  haf  youn  bett  ready,  mein  brudder,"  greeted  Adel- 
bert, "and  a  fine  feast.  We  haf  the  men  in  livery  to 
wait  upon  us.  Come." 

Prince  Wilhelm  slowly  bit  off  a  chew  ot  tobacco 
from  a  ratty  looking  plug.  "Not  for  mine,"  he  replied, 
emphatically.  "Fat  Belly's  twelve  bucks  ahead  of  me 
playing  stud,  and  we  got  a  game  at  the  bunkhouse  to- 
night. I'm  going  to  live  down  there  with  the  gang, 
anyway.  And  I  got  to  wash  my  shirt.  S'long." 


The    Poker   Game   in   the 
Pullman   Smoker. 

THE  man  whose  hat  bore  a  New  York  label  appeared 
bored.  He  threw  down  his  magazine  and  glanced  up  and 
down  the  smoker.  The  two  men  in  the  seat  opposite  him 
were  trying  to  feel  interested  in  a  game  of  freezeout  they 
had  been  playing  for  an  hour.  Neither  could  win,  and 
they  had  pushed  two  stacks  of  matches  across  the  little 
table  so  often  that  their  hands  and  the  makeshift  chips 
were  grimy  with  dust. 

"What  time  is  it,  Smith?"  asked  one.  Smith  yawned. 
"You've  asked  me  that  forty  times,"  the  other  replied 
wearily.  "Three  o'clock.  I  wish  we  could  have  a  four- 
handed  game.  Two  hours  more." 

Smith's  friend  looked  at  the  stranger.  He  seemed  to 
be  a  gentleman,  and  he  was  well  groomed,  with  a  cheerful 
face.  Smith  looked  at  him,  too,  and  the  stranger  smiled 
pleasantly.  "Pretty  tiresome  with  all  this  dust,"  he  re- 
marked. 

The  three  got  together  at  once.  Poker  was  what  all 
agreed  would  be  liveliest,  but  they  needed  another  man. 
A  lanky  fellow,  wearing  a  big  coonskin  coat  with  a  red 
cotton  lining,  and  a  fur  cap,  walked  up  the  aisle  in  search 
of  the  water  tank.  Smith's  friend  winked. 

"He's  a  sure  enough  Rube,"  said  he,  "but  he  might  play 
if  we  made  it  small  stakes.  I  take  it  we  all  only  wish  to 
pass  the  time  ?" 

"Penny  ante  or  twenty  dollar  jacks — it's  up  to  you,  sir !" 
replied  the  stranger,  amiably.  What  a  nice  man  he  was ! 
Smith  already  liked  him  immensely.  When  the  coonskin 

104 


THE  POKER  GAME  IN  THE  PULLMAN. 

coat  man  returned,  Smith  stopped  him.     Would  he  join 
them  just  to  make  up  a  game? 

The  farmer  hesitated.  "I  ain't  never  played  much, 
'ceptin'  at  the  tavern  to  hum,"  said  he,  "but  if  it's  light 
don't  mind  ef  I  do." 

They  made  it  a  quarter  limit,  Western  poker,  with  the 
joker  in,  and  it  went  as  jack,  queen,  king  or  ace,  and  filled 
a  straight  or  flush.  This  was  Smith's  suggestion  because 
he  was  from  Colorado  and  not  used  to  jackpots.  He  said 
this  way  you  could  always  play  on  any  old  thing,  and  it 
made  it  lively.  They  had  poked  along  for  half  an  hour 
and  no  one  had  made  much.  The  New  Yorker  threw  his 
knife  into  the  centre. 

''Whoever  gets  the  buck  make  it  a  dollar  jack,  boys," 
said  he ;  "this  is  pretty  slow." 

Smith's  friend  won  the  first  jack.  Smith  had  lost  six 
dollars  raising  on  two  measly  pairs,  and  he  wanted  the  six 
back.  "Why  not  a  two-dollar  round  of  jacks  just  for 
once? 

The  farmer  got  the  little  joker  when  drawing  to  a  busted 
straight.  After  he  had  let  Smith  grab  the  pot  on  three 
fours,  he  innocently  inquired  of  Smith's  friend  just  how 
that  pesky  "critter,"  as  Smith  called  it,  worked. 

How  thev  laughed  when  he  showed  his  hand,  with  the 
straight  he  had  laid  down !  Smith  kicked  the  New  York- 
er under  the  table  joyously.  These  Ohio  jays  were  funny. 

The  farmer  dug  out  an  old  wallet  tied  with  a  string.  "I 
jest  sold  my  ten  acre  medder,  an'  I  might  need  this,"  said 
he  ruefully.  He  hadn't  won  a  pot,  so  far.  The  New 
Yorker  was  just  about  even.  Smith  and  his  friend  were 
feeling  fine.  They  laughed  and  made  jokes,  and  Smith 
whistled. 

Finally  the  farmer  got  nervous.  "I'll  have  to  go  and 
ask  Hanner  'bout  stayin'  any  longer,"  said  he.  They 
played  three-handed  until  he  went  into  the  day  coach  and 
returned.  Hanner  had  permitted  him  fifteen  minutes 
more. 

There  was  a  round  of  ten-dollar  jacks.  This  was  a 
sporting  crowd  now.  Smith  stopped  whistling,  and 

105 


THE  POKER  GAME  IN  THE  PULLMAN. 

squinted  closely  at  his  cards.  His  friend  had  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  and  was  breathing  noisily,  and  he  had  become 
very  cautious,  with  that  chill  politeness  which  a  man  as- 
sumes when  he  is  a  loser.  He  spoke  harshly  to  Smith  a 
little  later. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  he.  "THAT  is 
my  card." 

"All  the  same,"  replied  Smith,  gayly.    He  was  ahead. 

"It  ain't  the  same  to  me,"  said  his  friend  coldly.  The 
farmer  dealt  next.  He  was  quite  awkward,  and  when  he 
tried  to  riffle  'em  up  he  made  a  mess  of  it.  The  New 
Yorker  opened  it  for  ten.  Everybody  stayed,  and  the 
farmer  raised  it.  The  New  Yorker  bet  after  the  draw. 
Smith  raised  it,  and  the  farmer  raised  him.  Smith's 
friend  dropped  out.  The  farmer  had  won  over  two  hun- 
dred when  he  showed  down  his  ace  full,  and  Smith  angrily 
slapped  down  his  double  ace  flush. 

"Cuss  that  joker !"  he  groaned.  "A  two-ace  flush  looked 
so  good  I  had  to  bet  on  it !" 

"Why,  certainly,  he  played  his  hand  right,"  said  the 
New  Yorker.  This  made  Smith  feel  a  little  better.  It's 
something  to  be  a  gambler. 

They  had  a  twenty-dollar  jackpot.  Everybody  was  ex- 
cited and  somebody  would  get  home  broke.  They  were 
all  in. 

"I  raise  it  twenty,"  cried  Smith's  friend,  peeling  off  a 
yellow-backed  bill. 

The  car  door  opened  and  a  woman,  whose  countrified  air 
and  costume  proclaimed  her  "Hanner,"  hurried  up  to 
them.  She  gasped  in  horror  when  she  saw  the  speedy 
game  in  which  Paw  was  indulging. 

"Hiram!"  she  said,  sternly,  "get  right  up!  You  ain't 
a-goin'  to  lose  our  last  cent !  Now,  quit !  Yew  air  gam- 
blin'  fur  money,  an'  yew  a  deekin !" 

"Now,  Hanner,  jest  a  minnit,"  begged  Hiram.  "Set  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  here,  an'  I'll  hurry." 

Hanner  consented,  with  a  disapproving  snort,  and  the 
game  went  on.  The  opener  drew  two,  the  farmer  one, 

106 


THE  POKER  GAME  IN  THE  PULLMAN. 

the  third  man  three  and  the  last  one.  The  raising  before 
the  draw  had  been  hot  and  heavy. 

"Twenty  bet/'  said  Smith.  "AND  twenty,"  said  Hiram. 
The  New  Yorker  raised  it  again.  Smith  didn't  stay. 

Then  Hanner  spoke.  "What  do  them  four  wimmen  in 
your  hand,  all  alike,  mean,  Hiram?"  she  asked,  interest- 
edly. 

"Shet  up !"  hissed  Hiram.  But  the  shot  had  told.  A 
limpness  seemed  to  fasten  on  the  others. 

"It  beats  me,"  said  the  New  Yorker.  Then  he  grinned. 
"You'd  have  stung  me  for  twenty  more,  old  pal,"  he  said. 
Hiram  scowled  at  Hanner. 

"That's  good,"  sighed  Smith's  friend. 

Hiram  threw  his  hand  into  the  discard.  He  had  cleaned 
them  up,  and  he  and  Hanner  left  the  car  at  the  next  stop. 

The  New  Yorker  got  his  overcoat.  "Guess  I'll  toddle 
into  the  sleeper  and  get  a  snooze,"  he  observed.  "See  you 
later,  gentlemen." 

He  got  off  when  Hiram  did,  but  from  the  Pullman. 
When  the  train  had  pulled  out  he  bought  three  tickets 
back  to  Toledo.  Then  he  looked  up  Hiram  and  Hannah. 

"Fine  for  you,  Aggie,"  said  he.  "That  was  a  cinch. 
Keep  the  coin  till  to-night,  Jack,  and  we'll  all  eat  together." 

"I'll  certainly  be  glad  to  shake  this  make-up,"  said 
"Hanner,"  plaintively,  "and  wear  my  diamonds  again. 
Well,  there's  one  born  every  minute,  boys." 


The  Troubles  of  Two  Working 
Girls. 

SCENE;  the  telephone  switchboard  in  the  lobby  of  a  Broadway  hotel. 

CHARACTERS;     Annabelle,  the  Telephone    Girl,    and    Myrtle,    "in    the 
business. ' ' 


MYRTLE— Say,  Annabelle,  d'yuh  think  yuh  ought- 
er  be  wearin'  yer  diamonds  in  the  mornin'?  It 
ain't  classy,  dear. 

ANNABELLE— Yuh  betcha  life  I'm  goin'  tuh  keep 
right  on  wearin'  'em.  That  big  blonde  countess  from 
Paris  up  in  Suite  B  wears  all  her  joolry,  'cause  I 
seen  her,  an'  it  looks  like  a  countess  oughta  know! 

MYRTLE — D'yuh  mean  the  one  what  come  down 
here  tuh  'phone  in  a  pink  silk  kimona  and  a  sunburst  f 
A  fella  who  was  in  the  Bon  Tons  with  me,  he  gotta 
flash  yestidday,  an'  he  says  she  ain't  no  more  from 
Paris  than  I  am !  He  told  me  she  ust  tuh  rope  steers 
down  on  her  pa's  ranch  in  Texas  before  she  colored 
her  hair! 

ANNABELLE— Gee,  they  must  be  the  goods! 
while  a  big  fat  slob  like  her  just  sets  back  an'  lets 
'em  bring  her  diamonds !  Honest  tuh  Heaving,  it's  dis- 
couragin';  but  I  betcha  I  nail  some  mark  yet,  at  that, 
my  dear. 

MYRTLE— How's  the  cigar  man?  Did  the  old 
lobster  come  tuh  the  scratch  an'  fall  fur  the  ruby  pin? 

ANNABELLE— Oh,  I  had  to  flag  him !  I  don't  mean 
my  Forty-second  street  one,  but  the  guy  on  Sixth  ave- 
noo.  I  told  'em  to  beat  it.  Cheap  skates,  astin' 

108 


TROUBLES  OF  TWO  WORKING  GIRLS. 

me  tub  Mink's,  mind  yuh!  One  of  'em  tuck 
me  tuh  a  show,  an'  just  'cause  I  was  talkin'  tuh  a 
young  fella  who's  gotta  auto,  and  of  course  I  can't 
overlook  no  bet  like  that,  this  guy  says,  "Gee,  them 
f-lks  on  the  stage  is  makin'  such  a  row  I  can't  hear 
a  word  yuh  say!"  I  can't  see  them  bum  comejians, 
an'  when  he  went  out  tuh  the  bar  I  just  give  my  other 
gen'lemen  fren'  the  office,  an'  hit  the  trail!  He  staked 
me  tuh  a  feed  at  Rector's,  like  a  perfect  gent. 

MYRTLE — I'm  havin'  the  grandest  time  since  I 
got  so  fren'ly  with  our  manager.  He  treats  me  ele- 
gant, an'  soon's  we  leave  Noo  York  I'm  tuh  be  featur- 
ed. His  wife  might  get  hep  here. 

ANNABELLE— What  will  yuh  be  featured  as? 

MYRTLE— Why,  just  featured,  yunno !  That's  all 
they  do  in  burlesque.  I  come  out  in  a  swell  mil'try 
soot  in  the  first  part,  an'  sing  a  song,  an'  the  chorus 
has  tuh  sing  down  tuh  me.  Them  hussies'd  like  tuh 
start  sumpin'  with  me.  but  HE  give  'em  the  huncn 
not  to  git  gay.  I'm  gettin'  the  loveliest  noo  boots 
fur  my  second  entrance,  when  I  wear  the  pink  tights 
— costin'  $20,  dear! 

ANNABELLE— They  most  be  the  goods!  Does  he 
stake  yuh  to  the  clothes? 

MYRTLE  (in  a  lofty  tone)— Sure,  I  got  him  goin', 
yunno,  'cause  I  cud  show  the  letters  tuh  his  family — 
but  I'm  a  lady  and  wouldn't  do  nuthin'  like  that  less'n 
I  was  just  brung  tuh  it.  He  says  I  got  the  handsom- 
est pins  in  the  company,  an'  I  guess  I  have  all  right, 
though  I  ain't  a  gell  that's  always  cappin'  her  own 
game.  Legs  is  everything  in  burlesque.  Well,  I'd 
rather  be  under  the  spotlight  playin'  Miner's  as  an 
almost  star  than  back  in  the  row,  like  I  was  at  Weber's, 
an'  not  a  line !  Them  managers  is  repular  grouches. 
When  I  went  with  that  Lincoln  J.  Carter  an'  played 
the  begger  gell,  sellin'  violets,  they  made  me  take  off 
my  em'rald  necklace  an'  all  my  rings.  What's  the 
use  of  bein'  in  the  profession  if  yuh  gotta  be  treated 
like  that? 

109 


TROUBLES  OF  TWO  WORKING  GIRLS. 

I  see  George  Leslie  an'  his  wife's  back  from  Lunnon. 
I  seen  'em  when  I  was  over  last  year,  the  time  my 
fren'  the  wine  man  had  tuh  leave  town  'cause  Jerome 
wanted  him  tuh  testify.  We  had  the  grandest  time ! 
My  fren',  Mr.  Corri,  of  Lunnon,  and  George  Weedon, 
was  up  to  their  flat.  Yunno,  George  is  a  perfectly 
lovely  pianner  player,  too.  Oh,  yes,  he  is,  dear  honest. 

ANNABELLE  (in  'phone)— Hello !  This  is  4-11- 
44!  Will  I  ast  the  cashier  if  yuh  left  a  watch  with 
him  fur  the  last  quart  yuh  had  last  night?  I  s'pose 
I  kin.  Front !  Hello !  He  says  send  down  the  six 
an'  yuh'll  git  the  watch!  What?  Well,  I  s'pose  the 
extry  two  is  fur  a  pint  fur  himself.  I  can't  help 
whether  yer  a  fren'  of  the  boss  or  not. 

Them  mutts  gimme  a  pain ! 

Hello !  No,  Genaro  an'  Bailey  ain't  stoppin  here ; 
this  ain't  the  Union  Square !  On  the  level,  I  don't 
think  thev'd  be  up  yet,  so  I  wouldn't  go  buttin'  in  if 
I  was  yuh !  Well  yuh  git  the  tip  whether  yuh  want 
it  or  not !  Darn  him  !  if  he  goes  disturbin'  Dave  when 
he's  pressin'  his  brown  dress  soot,  he'll  git  a  swift  kick 
— yunno,  Dave's  wife  is  always  laughin,  at  him  not 
lettin'  the  man  do  it,  but  I  dunno  why  he  shouldn't. 
Hello!  HELLO!  No,  there  ain't  no  Mista  Barker 
livin'  here ;  yuh're  five  blocks  off — we  ain't  got  no 
guests  what  go  tellin'  their  pasts  tuh  the  noospapaers 
— don't  sass  me!  I  don't  have  tuh  work  here;  I  just 
do  it  'cause  I  gotta  have  some  excuse  fur  stayin'  away 
from  home.  Hello !  Well  I'll  see  if  she's  is  in ;  but  she 
won't  come  down  tuh  the  'phone  at  this  hour!  Oh! 
Yuh  want  her  tuh  meet  yuh  at  the  bank?  I  guess  she 
kin  come  down,  just  wait;  Front!  My  that's  his 
ladi  fren'  who's  in  vod-ville,  an'  she  cert'nly  needs 
che  money.  This  must  be  the  fella  she  was  tellin'  about ! 
Hello!  Well,  if  our  ho •  use  detective  said  yuh  couldn't 
come  in,  let  it  go  at  that !  Yuh  gotta  big  suite  upstairs  an' 
lived  there  two  years,  and  he  throwed  yuh  out  ?  Come  on 
back.  I'll  git  the  lobster  discharged !  The  boss'll  go  off 

no 


TROUBLES  OF  TWO  WORKING  GIRLS. 

his  nut ;  this  old  mark  buys  more  booze'n  the  whole  day's 
trade  comes  tuh,  an'  'cause  he  had  a  souse  he  got  in  our 
own  bar,  this  noo  Nick  Carter  gives  him  the  rinkydink  an' 
won't  let  him  come  home !  There's  nothin'  but  trouble 
'round  here  all  the  time!  (Curtain.) 


When    Black    Mose    Met    His 
Waterloo. 

DEY  ain't  nuffin  dis  side  ob  Tennessee  kin  lick 
mah  black  Mose,"  boasted  Samson  Jones.  "I  des 
whispered  in  his  yeah  an'  he  toh'  dat  Nashville  bird 
clar  tuh  pieces.  Das  de  kind  bird  he  is." 

Old  Colonel  Mosby  caught  the  enthusiasm  of 
Mose's  owner.  "Well,  he  nevah  did  fail  us  yet,  Sam- 
son," he  said ;  "so  we  all  will  bet  on  him  to-night.  And 
hyah's  a  ten  dollah  bill.  Ah'll  hand  yo'  all  moh  when 
the  main's  ovah." 

"Yassah,  yasi,  Marse  Mosby;  de  gemmen  got  no 
call  tuh  be  scahed,  sah.  Old  Mose  goin'  bring  in  de 
money." 

The  rivalry  between  Tennessee  and  Mississippi  was 
intense.  Gentlemen  had  come  to  blows  lately,  the 
result  of  angry  argument  over  the  merits  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi brand  of  gamecock.  Birds  had  been  fetched 
from  Knoxville  and  Memphis,  and  the  champions  of 
these  cities  laid  low  by  the  defenders  of  Mississippi's 
glory,  headed  by  black  Mose.  There  had  been  no  re- 
turn express  charges  to  pay  after  the  battles.  Only 
a  few  tail  feathers  were  left  for  the  chagrinned  Ten- 
nesseans  to  'bear  sorrowfully  away. 

A  foolish  sentiment  among  the  women  of  Palmetto 
had  made  secrecy  necessary  at  present  in  the  matter 
of  championship  mains.  A  preacher,  nursing  a  grouch, 
because,  deserting  Palmetto  at  a  former  session,  he 
bad  bet  on  a  Memphis  rooster  and  lost,  had  so  lacked 
the  sporting  instinct  that  he  began  a  crusade  against 
cock  fighting. 

112 


WHEN   BLACK  MOSE  MET  HIS  WATERLOO 

"Yas,  an'  de  ve'y  clo's  he's  a-wearin'  was  win  by 
backin'  Mose,"  said  Samson  Jones  disgustedly.  "I 
ain't  got  nuffin  agin  preachers  as  a  whole,  but  some 
of  em'  sho  got  a  heap  ob  yalla  inside  em." 

Samson  lived  over  in  the  pine  woods,  back  of  the 
Lee  plantation.  He  cultivated  a  "goober"  patch  and 
a  small  plot  of  potatoes,  and  exercised  supervision 
over  a  bony,  decrepit  old  white  mule,  with  two  bad 
legs,  a  coon  dog  and  three  game  birds  of  proud  line- 
age. There  were  hogs  running  wild  through  the 
woods,  and  these  furnished  pork  in  plenty  for  his  table. 

Whenever  Aunt  Sarah  honed  for  a  new  red  dress, 
or  a  pound  of  snuff,  and  the  gin  jug  needed  filling, 
Samson  did  a  bird  up  in  a  sack  and  went  forth  to 
war.  There  was  an  abandoned  barn  a  half  mile  away, 
and  in  this  the  combat  was  to  take  place. 

Samson  was  in  charge  of  the  arrangements,  and  he 
busily  made  pine  pitch  torches,  with  which  to  guide 
the  strangers  over  fallen  timber  and  past  waterholes. 
It  was  January  and  the  rains  had  made  the  clay  soil 
soggy.  The  Nashville  sports  got  to  Palmetto  on  the 
morning  of  the  fight,  and  the  three  bars  made  up  for 
months  of  dull  trade. 

The  confident  Mississippians,  headed  by  Colonel 
Mosby  and  the  sheriff,  bet  the  enemy  to  a  standstill 
even  before  the  pitside  was  reached.  After  .supper 
the  natives  pleaded  important  lodge  business,  and 
work  at  the  office,  and  all  those  hoary  excuses,  to 
their  wives  and  hustled  away  to  meet  the  enemy,  mer- 
rily carousing  in  the  Stonewall  Jackson  bar. 

Many  eager  black  boys  headed  the  parties  when  it 
was  time  to  start.  Slipping  and  sliding,  they  left  the 
road  and  followed  the  flickering  torches  through  the 
woods.  Holly  and  magnolia  branches  festooned  with 
long  gray  tree-moss,  dripped  water  on  the  excited 
crowd,  but  they  didn't  care.  The  nine  strange  birds 
were  conveyed  by  their  owners  and  trainers,  the  feath- 
ered warriors  fussing  mightily  inside  the  bags  which 
held  them. 


WHEN   BLACK  MOSE  MET  HIS  WATERLOO 

Eight  other  birds  were  to  fight  for  the  other  side, 
including  "Meade's  Best,"  which  had  never  yet  met  de- 
feat. His  would  be  the  final  struggle,  with  the  pride  of 
Tennessee.  The  "prelims"  were  interesting,  but  they 
did  not  stir  the  blood  of  the  spectators  to  any  great 
extent. 

When  the  sixth  pair  was  sent  into  the  pit,  things 
warmed  up.  They  were  two  well-bred  ones  and  put 
up  a  rattling  go.  The  betting  grew  lively,  and  in 
the  end  Tennessee  bore  off  a  battered  bird  almost  too 
far  gone  for  repairs. 

At  midnight  the  score  was  four  to  four.  The  cham- 
pions would  settle  it,  one  way  or  the  other. 

"Fifty  dollars  on  the   black,"  roared  the  judge. 

"Right  back  at  yo',  sah !"  shouted  a  Tennessee  man. 

The  black  helper  of  the  Tennessee  bird's  owner  ap- 
proached Samson.  "S'pose  yo'  all  is  skairt  to  bet 
some  mo'?"  he  said  tauntingly. 

Samson  had  bet  all  his  money,  but  he  had  the  mule. 
He  wagered  it  against  a  cash  equivalent,  Colonel 
Mosby  guaranteeing  its  value  to  be  at  least  fifteen 
dollars. 

Then  Samson's  sporting  blood  churned  in  his  veins. 
He  bet  his  house,  his  goober  patch,  and  four  pigs 
which  were  not  really  his  own  property,  although 
they  grunted  in  his  pen,  and  the  two  lame  gamecocks 
at  home  just  recovering  from  a  fight. 

His  brass  watch  chain  and  his  coat  and  vest  he  put 
up  next.  Whites  and  blacks  yelled  forth  bets. 

Samson  let  Mose  out  of  the  bag.  He  stroked  Mose, 
and  whispered  to  him  until  Mose's  beady  eyes  bulged 
out  aggressively.  The  battle  was  on ! 

With  a  wild  squawk  the  Tennessee  bird  whirled 
upon  Mose,  striking  furiously  with  his  sharp  spurs. 
Mose  met  him  gamely,  and  a  bunch  of  feathers  drop- 
ped out  where  he  viciously  assaulted  Meade's  Best. 

"Ah  got  nuffin  but  mah  rabbit's  foot  left!  Yo' 
cyant  lose  ef  yo'  got  it !"  shouted  Samson. 

"Took!"  howled  a  black  supporter  of  the  other  side, 

n4 


WHEN   BLACK  MOSE  MET  HIS  WATERLOO 

producing  his  own.  Samson  hastily  removed  his 
shoes,  still  encouraging  his  bird.  He  bet  the  shoes. 

A  great  yell  of  triumph  went  up  from  the  Tennes- 
seeans.  Their  bird  had  cut  off  one  of  Mosers  spurs! 
The  finish  was  quick.  Advancing  on  the  bleeding 
Mose,  the  enraged  stranger  flew  up  in  the  air,  landed 
at  just  the  right  spot,  and  cut  poor  Mose's  head  half 
off.  Tennessee  had  won! 

Mississippi,  broke,  with  the  enemy's  joyful  cheers 
mounting  upward,  turned  on  Samson.  They  may 
have  left  out  a  few  insulting  epithets,  but  only  be- 
cause in  their  just  anger  they  overlooked  them. 

Samson  gathered  up  the  relics  of  his  dead  bread- 
winner. He  passed  over  the  rabbit's  foot,  his  clothes 
and  his  shoes.  Aunt  Sarah  would  have  no  home,  and 
he  was  a  disgraced  man. 

"Dey's  jes'  two  fings  Ah  wants  tuh  ax  yo'  white 
men,"  he  said  finally,  "jes'  two." 

"And  what's  that,"  asked  one. 

"Gimme  a  nickel  foh  a  chaw  tobacker,"  replied  Sam- 
son sadly,  "an'  put  on  mah  tombstone  'He's  daid,  but 
not  out  betted." 


The    Creating  of  a  Top   Line 

Act. 

"Nothing  doin'  again  today?"  asked  Flossie  Collins. 
Her  husband,  the  other  half  of  the  comedy  sketch 
team  of  Collins  &  Collins,  shut  the  door  of  their  room, 
before  he  replied. 

"I  got  a  week  in  Kansas  City  in  August,"  said  he, 
gloomily.  "That's  sumpin'." 

"Well,  I  don't  call  it  sumpin',  Mr.  Collins!"  ex- 
claimed Flossie,  angrily.  "I  s'pose  you  mean  to  set 
here  till  August  an'  then  jump  out  there,  don't  you? 
Now,  in  the  future  I'll  see  the  agents.  Ef  you'd  get 
out  mornin's  'stead  of  settin'  round  playin'  pinochle 
over  in  the  s'loon,  we'd  be  workin'  now.  In  the  morn- 
in'  is  the  time  to  see  agents.  Nobody  but  office  boys 
is  there  afternoons.  An'  it  was  told  to  me  by 
certain  parties  that  yestidday  when  you  told  me  you 
done  the  rounds  you  set  in  a  music  publisher's  shootin' 
craps  all  day !" 

Frank  Collins  scowled.  "Well,  I  win  two  dollars," 
he  returned,  peevishly.  "Quit  hollerin'.  You  can  be 
heard  all  over  the  house." 

"Let  'em  hear!"  shouted  Flossie.  She  took  a  pillow 
from  the  bed  and  hurled  it  furiously  at  her  sponse. 
"Don't  speak  to  me !"  she  went  on,  adding  rather  in- 
consistently:  "What  salary  did  you  take  for  Kansas 
City?" 

"None  your  business!"  he  replied,  kicking  the  pil- 
low viciously.  "You  can  get  a  new  par'ner!  I'm  sick 
of  fightin'.  Good-by." 

He  was  gone  before  Flossie  could  think  of  anything 

116 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

biting  to  say.  She  slid  off  the  bed,  where  she  had 
been  sitting,  to  the  floor,  burying  her  head  in  Hie  re- 
maining pillow. 

"Let  him  go!"  she  sobbed.  "I  don't  care.  Him  an' 
me  might's  well  quit  now  as  any  time.  He  never  did 
think  nothin'  of  me.  If  he  did  he  wouldn't  a  held  out 
that  two  yestidday." 

The  boarders  were  going  down  to  dinner.  She 
could  hear  them  joking  each  other  outside  in  the  hall, 
and  the  stairs  creaking  under  their  feet.  "Hello, 
Frank !"  a  voice  called  out. 

Flossie  got  up  rapidly,  trembling  for  fear  he  would 
go  away.  Dabbing  a  little  powder  over  her  face,  she 
opened  the  door.  Frank  was  standing  by  the  stair 
rail.  "I — I  just  wanted  to  ask  if  you  got  the  key,"  she 
faltered,  trying  not  to  cry. 

The  key  was  in  the  door,  as  they  both  knew.  Frank 
looked  foolish.  "I'll  come  in  and  look  for  it — honey," 
said  he.  "I  didn't  mean  what  I  said,  kid.  I'm  sorry." 
Thereupon  Collins  and  Collins  made  it  up,  and  held  a 
little  consultation  as  to  ways  and  means.  They  had 
not  worked  in  five  weeks,  and  Mrs.  De  Shine,  the  land- 
lady, had  ceased  to  smile  upon  them  in  her  erstwhile 
friendly  manner. 

"We'd  better  go  down  and  feed,"  suggested  Frank. 
"The  first  table's  eating  now.  If  we  miss  the  second 
they  won't  be  anything  good  left,  and  I  think  I  smell 
steak." 

In  the  lower  hall  they  met  Mrs.  De  Shine  and  Fido, 
her  beloved  poodle.  Moved  by  policy,  Flossie  car- 
essed Fido,  who  snapped  at  her  in  the  usual  way- 
"Don't  rag  the  dolling,  Mis'  Collins,"  said  his  owner, 
"Fido's  tur'ble  pertic'ler  who  pats  him." 

There  was  a  distinct  chill  in  her  voice.  As  'recently 
as  lunchtime  the  boss  had  addressed  Flossie  by  her 
first  name,  and  she  read  the  handwriting  on  the  wall. 

"Come  on,"  whispered  Frank.     He  read  it  also. 

Mrs.  De  Shine  spoke  again.  "When  yuh  folks  come 
117 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

out,  kin'ly  step  into  my  room,"  she  remarked,  "I'd  like 
a  few  words." 

"Oh,  cert'nly,"  replied  Flossie,  endeavoring  to  look 
as  if  she  wasn't  fully  aware  .of  what  the  words  would 
be  about. 

"What'll  I  say  to  her?"  Frank  was  plainly  dis- 
turbed, as  they  sat  down. 

"Oh,  wait'll  I  think.  I  don't  b'lieve  I  want  nothin' 
to  eat.  I  ain't  well,"  said  Flossie,  weakly. 

But  Frank  figured  that  if  they  were  to  lose  a  home 
he  could  bear  it  better  on  a  square  meal. 

"Slide  the  steak  down  to  this  end,  pal,"  said  he,  "and 
chase  the  bread  along.  Susy,  me'n  my  wife'll  take 
cawfee,  an'  hustle  up  some  more  potatoes." 

"Yessir,"  answered  the  slavey,  obediently.  Then 
she  whispered  to  Flossie. 

"Scuse  me,  Mis'  Collins,"  she  said,  "but  I  hearn  the 
boss  sayin'  she  wouldn't  wait  no  longer.  I  ain't  buttin' 
in,  but  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

"You're  a  good  gell,  Susy,  an'  I  appreciate  it,"  re- 
turned Flossie,  in  the  same  confidential  tone.  "Do 
yuh  s'pose  they's  any  use  handin'  her  a  talk?" 

"My,  she's  pie,"  said  Susy,  with  a  snicker,  "just  con 
her  along,  that's  all."  Flossie  breathed  easier.  She 
even  ate  a  little,  but  a  forboding  of  evil  sat  heavily 
upon  her  mind.  "You  tell  her  we  got  twenty  weeks' 
work,  beginnin'  in  a  week,"  she  said  to  Frank.  "Meb- 
be  we  kin  stall  her  off  for  a  week." 

"Leave  it  to  me.  I'm  the  fixin'  kid,"  said  he.  The 
Property  Man,  the  only  boarder  who  stayed  the  year 
around,  had  finished  his  dinner  excepting  a  second  cup  of 
coffee,  and  he  now  engaged  in  general  conversation. 
"Where  do  you  go  from  here?"  he  asked  Irma  Bender, 
the  contortionist. 

"Coin'  on  the  Melville  Park  Circuit."  said  she.  .He's 
a  per'fly  grand  fella  to  work  for,  too.  I  was  treated 
swell  last  season." 

Leona  Wilbur,  who  had  an  act  with  her  "pickani- 
nies"  all  a  long  way  over  seven,  reached  a  long  arm  in 

118 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

Flossie's  direction  in  search  of  the  sugar. 

"I  was  in  Norris'  today  and  I  seen  the  Four  Jug- 
ling  Skillets,"  she  observed.  "They  was  tellin'  me 
that  you  got  eight  weeks  'round  New  York  on  the 
same  bills  with  them.  Take  my  tip,  my  dear,  an' 
don't  tell  nothing  to  Pansy  Skillet  you  don't  want 
gabbed  to  the  hull  profession.  She's  a  natural  born 
knocker,  an'  I'd  say  it  to  her  face." 

"Eight  weeks — why,  I  don't  know  what — I  mean 
a'course  Flossie  had  stopped  in  time  to  conceal  her 
wonder.  What  did  Pansy  Skillet  mean  by  saying  that 
to  Leona?"  Miss  Wilbur  attacked  one  of  Mrs.  De 
Shine's  famous  home-pickled  beets,  known  to  all 
vaudeville. 

"I  wisht  we  had  eight  weeks  around  here,"  said 
Mirabelle  Browning,  of  the  Musical  Brownings,  with 
a  wistful  glance.  Mrs.  De  Shine  had  entered  with 
Fido.  Flossie  took  a  chance. 

We  got  eight  here,  and  twelve  solid  weeks  on  the 
parks!"  she  exclaimed  boldly,  "beginning  next  week! 
We  held  out  for  our  salary,  too,  an'  got  it.  We  never 
could  see  this  taking  less  money  in  the  off  season !" 

"Well,  you  got  a  good  man  bookin'  the  act,"  re- 
marked John  Kutupp,  late  comedian  in  a  burlesque 
troupe,  "that's  the  answer,  every  time."  Mrs.  De 
Shine  assumed  a  pleasant  smile.  It  would  be  folly  to 
antagonize  a  team  with  such  brilliant  prospects  ahead. 
She  promptly  made  up  a  new  book  of  the  affair. 
"Susy,  Mis'  Collins  ain't  had  no  meat  at  all!"  she  be- 
gan. "G'wan  out  an'  ast  the  cook  fur  a  real  tender 
piece  fur  her.  Mista  Collins,  is  they  anything  yuh 
want?  Say  the  word.  Maggie  De  Shine  was  never 
stingy,  an'  it's  well  knowed  that  I  set  things  on  this 
here  table  yuh  can't  get  nowhere  else." 

"That's  no  lie,"  murmured  the  Property  Man,  "it's 
sure  the  limit." 

"Did  yuh  speak,  Mister  Johnson?"  queried  the  boss, 
sharply.  The  Property  Man  said  he  had  been  simply 

119 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

agreeing  with  her  statement.  Frank  kicked  his  wife, 
under  the  table.  "Keep  it  up,  kid,"  said  he. 

"I  could  go  against  a  nice  dish  of  strawberries,  if 
you  got  any  lyin'  around  loose,  Mis'  De  Shine,"  he 
said,  aloud,  "and  Flossie  loves  'em,  don't  you,  Floss?" 

"I  cert'nly  do.'  Flossie  felt  with  Frank  that  they 
might  as  well  get  all  they  could  under  the  improved 
conditions.  The  boss  had  made  her  bluff,  and  now  she 
was  in  for  it.  Strawberries  for  two  meant  a  supply 
for  the  other  boarders  as  well. 

"Listen,  here.  S'pose  now  I  put  yuh  folks  in  numba 
twenty,  fur  the  same  price."  she  began,  "an'  let  the 
berries  go.  I  didn't  see  no  good  ones,  anyway,  tuh- 
day,  but  the  dear  knows  I  never  make  no  brag  I  dont 
make  good  on — soot  yerselves." 

"Tell  you  what,"  answered  Frank,  "we'll  just  take 
a  whole  soot  of  rooms.  You  got  the  three  with  the 
bath  the  Great  Allegretti  had  when  he  was  playin' 
Moctor's — an'  we  kin  afford  em'  now.  I  b'lieve  in 
bein'  comfortable." 

Flossie  gasped  at  the  extent  of  his  nerve,  but  Mrs. 
De  Shine  was  impressed.  Her  manner  seemed  to 
change  and  a  respect  that  hitherto  had  been  lacking 
took  the  place  of  her  former  arrogant  air.  The  board- 
ers buzzed  among  themselves.  The  Collinses  were 
flying  high,  evidently.  "Yuh  couldn't  find  nothin'  bet- 
ter at  the  San't  Wreckus  Hotel  itself,"  said  Mrs.  De 
Shine,  affably,  "an"  I  just  want  tuh  say  right  here,  I 
appreciate  yuh  stayin'  here  with  me,  same  as  when  yuh 
was  doin'  twelve  shows  a  day  in  a  Third  Avenoo  dump. 
Ef  all  vodeville  people  was  the  same,  an'  remembered 
them  what  stuck  by  'em  before  they  rose,  I'd  have  a 
Broadway  hotel." 

The  landlady  was  overcome  by  emotion.  With  a 
corner  of  her  apron  she  wiped  a  tear  away,  at  the  same 
time  keeping  tab  on  the  copious  amount  of  butter  to 
which  an  acrobat  at  one  end  helped  himself. 

"Kin'ly  rec'lect  that  butter  cost  money,  Johnny 
Twister,"  she  added,  "an'  some  folks  better  settle  what 

120 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

they  owe  before  gorgin'  on  the  fat  of  the  land !" 

"Yes'm,"  murmured  Mr.  Twister,  unabashed,  bolt- 
ing a  large  potato  whole  in  his  haste  to  depart  before 
she  said  more. 

"Yuh'll  have  them  berries  for  breakfast  an'  Susy'll 
take  it  up,"  she  told  Flossie,  privately ;  "anything  yuh 
feel  like,  ast  fur  it.  Them  rooms'll  be  got  ready  in  ten 
minutes,  my  dear." 

Collins  £'  Collins  went  upstairs. 

"I  guess  that  was  poor!"  Frank  sat  on  their  one 
trunk,  chortling  merrily.  Flossie  cast  aside  all  care. 

"I'll  do  for  a  few  days,"  she  observed,  "an'  we  might 
get  some  work  by  then.  But  won't  she  be  lookin'  for 
our  names  on  the  bills?" 

"We'll  say  we  took  the  place  of  a  team  that  was 
cancelled,"  Frank  assured  her;  "that's  easy.  We  got 
her  goin'  now,  an'  let's  make  it  strong.  But  I  can't 
see  where  that  dame  got  her  twelve  weeks  idee." 

A  soft  knock  interrupted  him.  It  was  Leona  Wil- 
bur. She  carried  a  white  satin  blouse,  which  she  was 
in  process  of  'beautifying  for  the  adornment  of  one  of 
her  robust  "picks." 

"Lock  the  door,"  she  whispered.  "Say,  you  done 
fine.  Didn't  you  ketch  on  to  why  I  was  making  that 
crack?" 

The  Collins'  begged  Leona  to  go  on. 

"The  Juggling  Skillets  ain't  no  friends  to  any  of  us," 
she  commenced.  "Tuh-day  I  met  'em  like  I  said.  I 
was  up  there  after  three  weeks'  work,  and  I  got  it,  and 
I'm  satisfied,  because,  thank  Gawd,  I  kin  make  good 
wherever  they  put  me  on  a  bill.  The  Skillets  come 
out  of  the  private  office,  and  Pansy  Skillet  begins  hoi- 
lerin'  how  they  got  twelve  weeks,  and  it's  too  bad  I 
didn't  have  a  good  'nough  act  to  get  more  dates. 
She's  a  cat !  Then  I  seen  you  goin'  in,  Frank,  and  the 
boys  says,  'Nothing  today,  but  call  again.' 

"I  got  to  thinking  about  them  blamed  Skillets,  an' 
goes  back,  and  the  clerk  tells  me  all  they  got  is  four 

121 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

weeks  in  Ohio,  on  the  dime  vocleville   circuit!     See 
how  they  lie." 

"I  don't  see  how  we  come  in,"  commented  Flossie. 

"The  Skillets  are  livin'  here,"  replied  Leona,  trium- 
phantly. "They  was  at  the  first  table  to-night,  or 
you'd  seen  'em.  I  said  that  about  you  so's  to  make  the 
hull  gang  good  an'  sore  'cause  they'll  think  you  got 
the  choice  time,  an'  their  big  turn  couldn't.  See? 
Anyway,  it  done  you  good,  at  that.  I  won't  breathe 
it,  an'  old  De  Shine  fell." 

Susy  arrived  with  the  tidings  that  the  rooms  were 
ready.  The  pleased  slavey  congratulated  her  friends, 
little  suspecting  on  what  thin  ice  they  were  traveling. 
"Mis'  De  Shine  run  out  an'  bought  a  silk  quilt!"  she 
announced,  "an'  she  tuck  the  curtains  outer  the  Jug- 
glin'  Skillets'  rooms.  They're  away  playin'  their  show- 
Say,  Mis'  Collins,  did  yuh  ever  feel  the  need  of  a  maid? 
Seems  like  yuh  oughter  have  a  dresser,  playin'  them 
swell  dates." 

Flossie  promised  Susy  she  would  reflect  upon  the 
advisability  of  having  a  retainer.  Leona  assisted 
her  friends  in  moving.  She  was  fond  of  them  both 
and  their  troubles  were  fully  known  to  her.  She  left 
to  play  her  own  show,  thinking  deeply.  It  seemed 
as  though  a  plan  for  their  further  relief  was  lurking 
in  her  mind,  but  she  could  not  quite  figure  it  out. 
In  the  liveliest  part  of  her  own  turn,  with  the  audi- 
ence roaring  at  the  antics  of  the  loggy  black  picks, 
engaged  in  a  spirited  buck  dancing  finish,  Leona 
found  the  way  out.  She  hardly  waited  to  take  her 
three  bows,  and  left  half  her  makeup  on  in  her  hurry 
to  get  back  to  the  house. 

"De  Shine's  liable  to  be  astin'  to  see  your  contracts," 
she  exclaimed,  bursting  in  upon  the  Collinses,  now 
elegantly  quartered  in  the  suite  which  only  high- 
salaried  headliners  and  managers  ever  occupied,  "and 
I  bet  anything  we  kin  show  'em  on  the  level !" 

"How?  Fake  'em?"  asked  Frank,  eagerly.  He  had 
maufactured  them  before  this. 

122 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

"Agents'll  go  on  overlooking  a  team  for  years," 
said  Leona,  earnestly;  but  if  the  team  goes  across 
to  London  and  makes  good  then  the  agents  here  go 
crazy  over  'em.  I  got  all  the  European  contracts  I 
had  up  to  1908,  that  I  ain't  going  to  play,  'cause  they 
ain't  for  'nough  money.  We  kin  put  Collins  &  Collins 
after  Lebna  Wilbur,  by  squeezin'  it  in,  boost  the 
twenty  pounds  salary  to  a  hundred  and  twenty,  and 
that  ought  to  look  pretty  sweet." 

"But  we  ain't  all  workin'  together,"  objected  Frank. 

Flossie  silenced  him. 

"You'd  go  to  work  with  anybody  if  you  got  any- 
thing fur  it,  wouldn't  you?"  she  demanded.  "G'wan, 
Leona!" 

"We  kin  lump  the  two  acts!"  cried  Leona,  warm- 
ing to  the  subject.  "We  go  up,  flash  them  contracts, 
and  if  we  don't  get  a  chance  to  stick  on  this  side  I'm 
off  my  nut,  an'  it's  set  on  pretty  steady.  Your  trunk 
scenery'll  do.  We  use  the  same  drop,  put  ten  minutes 
to  the  act,  and  in  the  place  in  your  act  where  he 
thinks  you're  the  woman  what  wants  to  buy  a  piano 
and  you  think  he's  the  manager  of  the  show  come  to 
rehearse  you,  me  an'  the  picks  comes  in,  does  our 
stuff,  you  finish  the  comedy  and  we  all  do  a  dancin' 
finish." 

Frank  rose  "Leona,  you're  an  ace!"  said  he.  "Get 
the  contracts!  Leave  that  to  me.  I'll  be  on  the  job 
at  eight  in  the  morning,  an'  you  gals  stay  home  and 
dope  out  what  to  cut.  I  got  some  new  stuff  that'll 
be  a  knockout,  too.  Say,  I  feel  like  a  new  man !" 

"We  only  got  to  keep  our  nerve  up,"  said  Flossie 
"These  rooms  seem  to  gimme  a  hunch  we're  goin' 
to  land  yet!"  Leona  examined  the  silk  quilt  ad- 
miringly 

"Mebbe  we'll  be  sleeping  under  this  kind  every 
day  before  long,"  she  remarked.  "It'll  take  them 
Skillets  down  a  coupla  pegs,  all  right." 

The    ladies    helped    Frank    array    himself    in   the 

123 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

morning.  His  street  clothes  were  in  bad  shape,  so 
his  stage  wardrobe  was  investigated.  A  natty  light 
gray  suit,  patent  leather  shoes,  with  gray  tops  and  a 
straw  hat  completed  his  outfit.  A  somewhat  loud 
patterned  shirt  and  a  neat  bow  tie  fixed  him  nicely. 

The  breakfast,  with  strawberries,  came  up  at  an 
early  hour,  borne  by  Susy.  She  reported  that  iho 
whole  house  was  gossiping  at  the  luxury  of  Collins 
&  Collins.  Leona  went  down  to  breakfast  where 
she  listened  delightedly  to  the  grouchy  comments  of 
the  Juggling  Skillets  and  other  envious  performers. 

Luckily  Frank  met  the  most  important  agent  of  all 
as  he  got  into  the  elevator  to  ride  to  his  office.  It  was 
not  easy  to  get  away  when  the  visitor  had  caught 
him.  In  his  own  office  the  agent  had  many  ways  of 
eluding  the  most  determined  pursuit.  "I'll  probably 
have/  a  park  date  very  soon,  old  man."  said  the 
agent,  "but  nothing  right  now." 

"Oh,  I  only  got  two  weeks  open,"  returned  Frank, 
carelessly.  "Better  take  us  off  the  list,  because  we 
sail  with  the  big  act  in  two  weeks,  you  know.  Just 
got  our  English  and  German  contracts." 

The  agent  regarded  him  intently.  So  little  atten- 
tion had  he  paid  to  Frank  on  former  visits,  that  he 
began  to  wonder  what  the  fellow  meant. 

"Big  act!"  he  repeated,  as  they  got  out  at  his  floor, 
"what  big  act?  Thought  you  did  a  comedy  sketch 
with  somebody?" 

He  noted  Frank's  clothes.  "Front"  goes  a  long 
way,  and  the  stage  suit  had  been  well  kept  by  the  in- 
dustrious Flossie.  It  might  be  possible  that  he  had 
overlooked  something. 

"Used  to."  Frank  did  his  best  to  convey  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  perfectly  at  ease.  "But,  of 
course,  when  Leona  Wilbur  went  with  us  we  put  in 
new  features.  Six  people  now.  I  got  a  little  i.me 
out.  West" — he  thought  of  the  Kansas  City  week— 
"but  we'll  cincel.  Well  good  day!'' 

"Stop!  Come  in  and  have  a  smoke,"  insisted  the 

124 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

agent.  He  felt  puzzled.  "Let's  see  your  contracts. 
"\Yant  to  be  careful  of  those  Johns  on  the  other  side. 
They're  not  like  we  are." 

Nonchalantly  Frank  produced  the  papers.  He  felt 
a  wild  desire  to  peep  at  them  first  to  sea  if  the  changes 
still  stood  the  white  light  of  day.  His  heart  pounded 
as  the  agent  perused  them. 

"Six  hundred  dollars!"  he  said  at  last,  looking  up. 

"Holy  Moses!     Who  got  you  that  price?" 

Frank  smiled  wisely.  "It  ain't  hard  when  you  got 
the  goods,"  he  returned.  "We  had  to  get  it  from 
over  there,  too.  I  never  had  no  decent  money  handed 
me  here." 

"How  about  seeing  this  act?"  asked  the  agent 
abruptly. 

"I  couldn't  say  till  I  see  the  ladies,"  said  Frank, 
guardedly.  "Wle're  stoppin'  on  Fourteenth  street. 
I'll  go  down  and  ask  'em  about  it." 

The  agent  made  up  his  mind  to  find  out  what  the 
act  was. 

"I'll  call,"  said  he. 


Frank  raced  home.  Hurriedly  the  ladies  strewed 
knicknacks  about  their  smart  apartments  to  make  it 
look  homelike.  When  the  agent  got  there  one  look 
convinced  him  that  the  contracts  were  on  the  level. 
Vaudeville  people  could  never  keep  up  such  style  on 
small  money.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  these  per- 
sons should  come  under  his  sheltering  booking  winqf, 
if  only  because  they  appeared  to  have  no  desire  to  do 
so.  It  was  almost  a  matter  of  personal  pride.  Four 
days  later  on  a  certain  stage  he  saw  a  dress  rehearsal 
of  Collins,  Wilbur  &  Collins  and  their  Ethiopiah 
wonders. 

The  company  worked  with  such  dash  and  vim  that 
be  viewed  their  act  approvingly.  It  appealed  to  him. 
Agents  are  but  human  after  all.  He  began  to  feel 
a  friendly  interest  in  the  talented  group. 

"Look  here ;  you   stay  over  here,"  he  said  at  the 

125 


THE  CREATING  OF  A  TOP  LINE  ACT. 

finish.  "You've  got  a  nice  little  act.  Six  hundred's 
all  right  in  Europe,  but  it's  a  hard  game.  They  cut 
your  time  down  and  crab  a  good  turn,  and  the 
country's  an  awful  thing.  Now  I'll  get  you  four  hun- 
dred a  week  here  and  give  you  ten  weeks  around  New 
York,  eight  more  in  the  Enst  and  six  on  the  Morphe- 
um  Circuit,  West.  You  can't  beat  that.  Yes  or  no?" 

"Yes !"  "shouted  the  trio. 

"Then  come  up  and  sign,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  buy 
lunch  for  the  bunch — all  except  the  picks." 

Collins,  Wilbur  &  Collins  are  topping  bills  now. 
It's  all  in  the  way  you  go  about  it. 


The  Finish  of   Daffy  the  Dip. 

"DAFFY  THE  DIP"  was  in  bad  way.  He  lacked  the 
price  of  a  "shell"  of  hop,  and  he  had  a  yen  that  had 
crawled  into  his  very  soul  and  thence  sent  out  a  wail 
for  the  dope.  He  couldn't  get  his  mind  straight  on 
anything.  "A  guy  can't  get  no  coin  when  he's  dyin' 
fur  a  smoke,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  stood  outside 
the  long  dark  passage  way  which  led  to  Canton  Wil- 
lie's place  in  Pell  street.  His  nostrils  hungrily  sucked 
in  the  faint  odor  which  came  from  within. 

He  tried  to  think  out  a  plan  to  get  just  enough  for 
one  little  card.  A  few  pills  would  brighten  his  wits, 
and  with  the  night  crowds  out  buying  things  for  pres- 
ents, there  was  always  a  chance 

Daffy  in  his  day — a  brief  three  years  ago — had 
trained  with  the  headliners  in  crookdom.  He  had  a 
prouder  title  then.  Now  the  old  gang  gave  him  the 
high  sign  to  keep  on  moving  when  he  approached  one 
of  them,  because  the  hop  had  made  him  a  dead  one. 

He  wept  snuffingly  at  the  memory  of  a  day-old  snub. 
"Why,  I  puts  that  guy  where  he  is,"  he  thought,  bit- 
terly. "He  couldn't  slide  his  mitt  intuh  a  flour  bar'l 
when  I  knows  him  in  Cincy  (Cincinnati),  an'  I  shows 
him  how  tuh  git  big  coin.  An'  he  hands  me  the  ice 
pitcher  now.  I  wisht  I  was  dead,  an'  no  kid.  Hully 
chee !  this  yen  is  rippin'  out  me  insides.  On  the  dead, 
I  t'ink  I'm  off  me  nut  fur  fair.  Mebbe  they  got  me 
pat  on  that  name." 

He  shivered,  coughing  a  little.  His  overcoat  was 
"in  hock,"  and  thin  cotton  underwear,  topped  by  an 
old  Summer  shirt,  makes  poor  covering.  The  wind 

127 


THE  FINISH  OF  DAFFY  THE  DIP. 

blows  up,  filled  with  a  river  damp  chill,  through 
Chinatown  in  winter. 

Inside  Canton  Willie's  men  and  women  sprawled  on 
straw  bunks  cooking  fragrant,  satisfying  pills  of  bubling 
brown.  In  fancy  he  rolled  a  luscious  one  on  the  bowl  of 
the  pearl  inlaid  pipe  which  belonged  to  the  swell  layout 
you  hired  if  you  had  money. 

The  fat  policeman,  swinging  his  club,  came  down 
the  middle  of  the  street,  glancing  idly  to  either  side. 
He  spotted  Daffy  the  Dip.  "On  yer  way,  there! 
G'wan  out  of  that,  or  I'll  run  yuh  in !"  he  called  out, 
gruffly,  and  Daffy,  sick  with  the  yen  and  shaking 
with  ague,  fled. 

He  ran  a  little  way,  and  then,  seeing  that  the  big 
copper  had  turned  into  Doyers  street,  he  halted,  hiding 
himself  in  the  shadows  of  a  doorway. 

A  man  and  a  women  came  strolling  along.  They 
were  visitors,  seeing  the  sights.  The  woman  carried 
a  silver  bag,  one  of  the  kind  that  are  an  invitation  to 
crime.  The  man  was  talking.  He  said  you  couid 
find  hop  joints,  and  fan  tan  games,  and  Chinese  poker, 
if  you  "knew  someone."  You  couldn't  get  in  unless 
you  were  "all  right." 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  could  see  a  hop  joint !"  she  chattered. 
"My!  Wouldn't  it  be  lovely?" 

"If  I  knew  where  to  find  a  certain  plain  clothes 
man,  we  could,"  he  said.  Daffy's  heart  beat.  This 
mark  might  be  his  salvation.  He  hurried  after  the 
pair  and  touched  the  man  on  the  arm. 

"Listen,  I  hearn  youse  sayin'  about  a  joint,  see?" 
he  began  eagerly.  "I  kin  fix  it  fur  youse.  Is  it  a 
bet?"' 

The  woman  shrank  away,  frightened,  out  the  man 
laughed. 

"What  will  it  set  me  back?"  he  inquired,  looking 
Daffy  over. 

The  latter  paused  an  instant  while  he  tried  to  think. 
Supposing  he  said  too  much  and  the  guy  got  mad,  or, 
again,  if  too  little  he'd  be  regetting  it  later.  Hop  was 

128 


THE  FINISH  OF  DAFFY  THE  DIP. 

two-bits  a  card.  Three  cards  meant  release  from 
troubling  over  the  problem  of  existence,  and  a  revel 
in  pleasant,  drowsy  dreams,  in  which  coppers  did  not 
live,  nor  contemptuous  oldtime  friends  laugh  cruelly 
at  a  fellow  who  was  down. 

"It'll  cost  youse  two  bucks!"  he  said.  "An'  I'll  show 
youse  troo." 

"Oh,  do  let's  go!"  begged  the  woman.  The  man 
yielded,  and  told  Daffy  to  lead  on.  He  asked  why  the 
latter  trembled  so.  Was  he  hungry?  Daffy  said  yes 
that  was  it ;  not  even  the  chance  to  sniff  the  steam  of 
a  bowl  of  chop  suey  in  the  last  two  days. 

At  Canton  Willie's  Daffy  led  them  into  the  smelly, 
red  curtained  laundry  off  the  long  passage. 

"Hey,  Wo  Chung!"  he  cried,  and  a  Chinaman  ap- 
peared. "They're  good  people,  pals  of  mine,"  he  re- 
marked, nodding  to  the  visitors.  "Where's  Willie?" 

"Inside.  Go'  'head!"  answered  the  Chinaman,  un- 
interestedly. 

Canton  Willie  was  very  polite.  He  wore  American 
clothes  and  much  jewelry  and  had  a  familiar,  sociable 
air  that  shocked  the  female  visitor.  The  man  handed 
Daffy  two  rumpled  dollar  bills.  "You  go  and  get  a 
square  meal,"  he  advised  kindly.  "I  was  broke  once 
myself." 

But  Daffy,  unable  to  longer  restrain  himself,  left 
them  abruptly  to  carry  on  their  investigations  of  the 
slums  alone.  He  got  a  bunk,  a  layout  and  dope  from 
Charlie  Lee,  who  worked  for  Willie,  and  "began  opera- 
tions at  once.  The  poison  of  some  eight  pills  was 
working  well  when  the  visitors,  led  about  by  Willie, 
found  his  bunk. 

The  man  was  a  good  sort,  and  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  it  was  a  shame  to  see  a  young  fellow  killing  him- 
self. He  spoke  earnestly  to  Daffy. 

"You  get  up  and  get  a  good  meal,"  he  said.  "If  you 
smoke  hop  now  on  an  empty  stomach  it'll  kill  you." 

He  didn't  know  much  about  the  matter,  and  when 

129 


THE  FINISH  OF  DAFFY  THE  DIP. 

he  decided  to  be  charitable  he  hated  folks  opposing 
him. 

"On  yer  way;  don't  bodder  me,  cul,"  said  Daffy, 
sleepily,  cooking  another  pill  in  the  flame  of  the  little 
oil  lamp. 

The  man  became  angry.  He  commanded  Daffy  to 
get  up  that  very  minute.  Daffy  wouldn't  budge. 

Then  the  man  informed  Canton  Willie  that  he  was 
a  doctor,  which  was  a  lie,  and  that  if  this  man  died 
here  it'd  close  the  place  for  good.  "And  I'll  have 
you  raided  if  you  don't  put  him  out !"  he  added. 

That  settled  it. 

Willie  called  his  minions,  and  they  threw  poor 
Daffy,  warmed  and  happy  in  his  bunk,  out  into  the 
cold  of  Pell  street. 

The  woman  thought  her  escort  was  too  noble  to  live, 
and  said  so  in  his  ear. 

He  told  Daffy  about  a  place  where  hop  fiends  were 
cured.  He  should  be  fed  and  clothed  and  then  go  there. 
They  would  feed  him  now.  But  Daffy  turned  on 
him,  choking  with  passion.  "Youse  fixed  me  clock, 
ain't  youse?"  he  shouted  wildly;  "gits  me  trun  out 
the  only  joint  I  kin  git  in  since  the  gang  gits  sore  on 
me  an'  gives  the  Chinks  the  office!  I  don't  want  no 
habit  cured,  an'  no  meals!  Take  that!" 

He  whirled  on  the  man  and  struck  him  in  the  face ; 
then,  shrieking  like  a  maniac,  he  ran  up  the  street. 
The  woman  screamed. 

"That's  what  we  get  for  being  charitable !"  said  the 
man,  viciously,  feeling  his  aching  jaw  tenderly.  "Con- 
founded ungrateful  gutter  swine !" 

"Yes,  Freddie,  come  away  quick !"  she  cried,  clutch- 
ing him. 

They  pinched  Daffy  before  morning  and  he  went 
to  the  Island  as  a  "vag."  One  day  he  died  over  there. 
But  then  he  had  to  end  some  way.  Still,  charity  ap- 
plied with  the  axe  is  bad  business. 


130 


The  Code   of  the   Hills. 

BIG  DAN  stopped  the  outfit  on  the  edge  of  Buck  Creek, 
where  there  was  plenty  of  wood  and  water.  The  two  ten- 
derfeet  from  the  East  couldn't  go  on.  The  fat  man's 
legs  were  stiff  and  sore,  and  the  young  expert,  who  knew 
the  mining  game  from  books,  was  down  and  out. 

They  had  crawled  along  the  trail  since  seven  in  the 
morning,  through  snow  and  mud,  with  packhorses  sink- 
ing deep  into  the  soft  muck  of  the  mud  holes  at  every 
half  mile.  That  meant  tugging  at  a  mule's  head,  up  to 
the  hips  in  freezing  slime,  and  finally  uncinching  the  pack 
ropes,  conveying  the  load  to  dry  land,  and  by  united  effort 
hauling  the  mule  after  it.  The  tenderfeet  had  worked 
for  once,  to  the  tune  of  a  string  of  half  Nez  Perce  and 
ordinary  Idaho  mountain  talk  from  Dan  that  shocked  the 
young  expert  and  excited  the  fat  man's  admiration. 

Had  the  Easterners  not  insisted  on  lugging  along  such 
truck  as  sleeping  bags,  air  pillows  and  a  foolish  plenitude 
of  clothing  they  might  have  ridden  light  and  been  at  the 
big  camp  by  this  time,  instead  of  only  two  days  from  the 
wagon  road. 

"Oh,  I'm  awful  sick !"  groaned  the  fat  man.  The  ex- 
pert wasn't  well,  either,  but  after  Dan  had  unsaddled  the 
cayuses  and  unpacked  the  two  mules  they  revived  consid- 
erably. Seeing  this,  and  having  had  previous  experience 
with  tenderfeet  who  renigged  when  work  faced  them, 
Dan  addressed  the  fat  man  sourly: 

"Seein'  as  you  guys  is  better,"  said  he,  "you  just  fill  the 
coffee  pot  and  rustle  wood,  and  if  you  want  that  New 
York  tent  put  up  cut  yourselves  a  couple  o'  poles.  I'm 
goin'  to  turn  out  them  animals.  Find  me  the  hobbles  in 
that  alforjas,  Boston!" 


THE  CODE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  expert  looked  at  Dan  angrily.  Why  must  he  take 
orders  from  this  vulgar  packer,  with  his  dirty  shirt  and 
ragged  overalls,  and  his  arrogant  ways,  bred  of  his  con- 
tempt for  the  man  who  changed  his  socks  and  shirt  once 
a  day  ?  "We  hired  you !"  exclaimed  the  expert.  "Why 
can't  you  do  it  ?" 

The  fat  man  was  frightened.  They  were  a  long  jump 
from  human  kind,  out  in  this  wild  Salmon  River  range, 
and  this  ruffian  might  flash  a  gun. 

But  Dan  didn't.    He  laughed. 

"You  back  East  Willies  are  sure  a  sportin'  lot,"  he  ob- 
served. "But  listen  here:  I'm  out  to  show  you  a  nickel 
prospect,  not  to  be  your  hired  gal !  No  one  but  a  bum 
tenderfoot  would  show  the  yaller  streak  you  got  in  your 
hide!  Now  get  them  hobbles  and  side  hobble  the  black 
mule  and  the  buckskin.  The  others  '11  stay  with  'em. 
An'  put  the  bell  on  my  old  Bally.  Savvy  ?" 

He  looked  unpleasant. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  shoot !"  cried  the  fat  man  in 
terror.  The  expert's  face  had  worn  a  string  of  colors  as 
a  feeling  of  shame  surged  over  him. 

"I  don't  pack  no  gun,  Mister  Pittsburg,"  replied  Dan, 
"  'ceptin'  my  42-70.  It's  on  my  saddle,  an'  what  I  use 
when  I  need  meat." 

The  expert,  having  read  Diamond  Dick,  among  his 
other  preparations,  realized  that  this  might  be  called  hav- 
ing the  drop  on  his  man.  Awkwardly  he  produced  a  new 
pattern  Colt.  "Hold  up  your  hands!"  he  yelled.  With 
the  last  word  a  sharp  hunk  of  snow  and  ice,  thrown  by 
Dan,  hit  him  in  the  face.  He  lost  his  balance  in  the  slip- 
pery mud  and  slid  backwards,  down  into  Buck  Creek. 

The  fat  man,  hopeless  now  of  supper,  because  he 
couldn't  bake  bannocks  or  cook  rice  without  it  burning 
before  half  done,  sat  down  on  a  snowy  log  and  cried.  Dan 
calmly  turned  his  back,  rummaged  among  the  horseshoe- 
ing outfit  for  the  hobbles,  and  went  off  with  them.  The 
expert  heard  him  cursing  at  the  black  mule,  so,  timidly — 
wet  and  subdued — he  came  up  the  bank,  and  between 
them  both  tenderfeet,  handling  the  axe  with  unskilled 

132 


THE  CODE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

fingers,  cut  dead  branches  from  the  pines  and  made  a  fire. 

Miserably  they  huddled  close  together  by  the  blaze  and 
discussed  Dan.  "These  people  haven't  a  decent  instinct," 
declared  the  fat  man.  "It's  a  wonder  he  didn't  kill  you, 
Jack.  He  has  the  look  of  a  criminal." 

"And  a  man  in  Pioneerville  says  he's  married  to  a 
squaw,"  replied  the  expert,  as  if  that  settled  the  matter  of 
their  guide's  low  character. 

It  was  dark  when  Dan  came  back  and  curtly  said  he'd 
make  the  bread  and  fry  the  bacon,  but  they  must  do  the 
rest.  The  expert  rooted  in  the  "kitchen"  alforjas  and 
found  the  cans  of  butter,  milk,  jam  and  other  delicacies  he 
had  provided.  Dan  would  eat  nothing  but  bacon,  bread 
and  coffee  and  a  tin  cup  of  rice.  The  expert's  gun  was 
not  publicly  displayed,  and  Dan  said  nothing  about  it. 

Next  morning,  although  Dan  urged  them  on  to  a  dryer 
camping  place,  neither  felt  fit  to  travel.  So  he  took  his 
rifle  and  fared  forth  to  look  for  a  deer.  So  far  he  had 
not  treated  his  companions  with  fresh  meat.  An  hour 
after  he  had  started  up  the  steep  mountain  down  which 
they  had  wearily  ridden  they  heard  two  shots.  Then  four 
or  five  more  in  quick  succession. 

"Those  people  love  to  kill,"  said  the  fat  man,  rubbing 
his  sore  leg.  They  had  a  serious  talk  about  Dan. 

"A  man  who  isn't  clean,  who  doesn't  bathe  frequently, 
cannot  possibly  feel  as  we  do  or  possess  our  instincts." 
The  expert  elevated  his  nose  as  he  glanced  at  Dan's  "other 
shirt,"  airing  on  a  branch  near  by.  "This  fellow  is  simply 
an  animal." 


It  was  night,  and  the  tenderfeet  had  fed  upon  their 
canned  stuff  and  coffee,  despairing  of  tackling  that  prob- 
lem, the  bread.  Dan  came  into  camp,  very  slowly,  as  if 
tired.  He  wearily  cooked  himself  a  meal  and  afterward 
sat  looking  at  the  fire,  drying  his  steaming  miner's  boots. 
The  expert  had  spread  a  canvas  pack  cover  on  top  of  his 
tent — Dan  hadn't  raised  it,  so  they  slept  outside — and 
crawled  into  his  sleeping  bag. 

133 


THE  CODE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  fat  man  was  a  garrulous  creature,  and  lonesome, 
so  he  endeavored  to  make  Dan  converse.  "Are  you  not 
well  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  well  enough,"  said  Dan,  moodily,  "but  I  done  a 
bad  job  to-day;  shot  at  a  buck  and  broke  his  jaw.  The 
critter  got  away  in  the  down  timber  an'  went,  hell  bent 
fur  'lection,  down  acrost  the  little  bench  below  here,  an'  up 
the  creek.  I  kep'  follerin',,  shootin',  but  I  lost  him.  I 
never  done  that  before. 

The  fat  man  was  sympathetic.  "Oh,  you'll  get  another 
easy  enough.  I  wouldn't  fret  over  it,"  said  he. 

"I  got  to  find  that  buck,"  said  Dan. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  why?"  inquired  the  fat  man, 
amused. 

"The  critter  can't  eat  or  drink  with  a  busted  jaw — 
that's  why,"  replied  the  guide.  "If  I  don't  ketch  him  he'll 
wander,  starvin',  till  he  plumb  gives  out." 

"Do  you  think  you'll  find  one  deer  among  a  thousand  ?" 
The  fat  man  was  laughing.  "And  what's  a  deer,  any- 
way?" 

Dan  was  silent,  while  the  fat  man  reflected  on  the 
idiocy  of  such  a  person.  At  dawn  Dan  was  off.  He 
found  a  lick  with  "deer  sign"  all  about  it,  and  fresh  tracks 
in  the  mud.  And  there  were  dark  blood  spots  in  a  little- 
bank  of  snow.  They  trailed  off  into  the  slide  rock  below. 

That  night  he  watched  the  deer  in  the  moonlight,  as 
they  came  to  the  lick,  and  does  with  their  fawns  and  here 
and  there  a  buck.  But  the  wounded  one  was  not  among 
them. 

The  second  morning  the  fat  man  kicked.  He  said  they 
wouldn't  wait  around  on  account  of  a  blamed  deer.  "You'll 
wait,  or  lose  a  nickel  prospect,"  answered  Dan,  grimly. 
A  light  snow  began  to  fall,  and  the  three  put  in  a  dull  day, 
Dan  going  out  after  the  stock  to  see  that  they  were  near 
the  bunch  grass  where  he  had  left  them,  while  the  other 
two  stayed  in  camp  and  swore. 

Late  that  night,  as  the  wind  blew  the  man-scent  to  the 
nostrils  of  the  pretty  creatures  tongueing  the  salt  rock,  a 
big  buck,  with  half  his  head  hanging  limp  and  mangled, 

134 


THE  CODE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

staggered  out  into  the  little  open  space.  The  man  behind 
the  big  rock  fired»,  and  the  suffering  beast  dropped  heavily. 
His  fellows  scampered  off,  crashing  through  the  stunted 
green  cottonwoods  and  pines. 

Dan  came  forth  and  viewed  the  dead  buck.  It  was  not 
far  to  camp,  and  he  had  his  knife.  Should  he  take  some 
meat?  "Nope,  them  guys  shan't  eat  you,  buckie,"  he 
said  quietly.  "I'll  sort  of  bury  you  here." 

He  dragged  the  buck  some  distance  and  left  him  in  a 
hole  in  the  rocks. 


"Well,  thank  the  Lord,  we're  going  to  move !"  breathed 
the  fat  man  next  morning,  as  they  broke  camp.  "Really, 
this  man  is  a  lunatic  instead  of  a  criminal.  Oh" — he 
raised  his  voice — "did  you  get  the  deer?" 

"Oh,  go  and  die,"  said  Dan,  with  a  scowl. 


The  Political  Beginning  of 
Solly  McGee. 

REPUTATION  is  a  mere  matter  of  opinion.  Some 
finicky  persons  insist  upon  so  conducting  themselves 
that  their  own  may  be  good,  with  no  mud-splashes 
upon  it,  while  others  go  in  for  a  reputation  of  any  old 
sort.  -That  was  the  way  Solly  McGee  felt — he  wanted 
folks  to  know  of  him,  to  mention  his  name,  pleasantly, 
as  they  did  Yom  Kippur  or  the  Seventeenth  of  March, 
or  unpleasantly,  as  they  did  the  Tsar,  or  Kinsky  the 
sweat-shop  man,  whom  every  one  in  his  set  on  Pike 
street  hated  for  his  meannesses. 

Solly  yearned  for  fame,  and  it  came  not.  The  worst 
time  of  all  was  as  Election  Day  grew  near,  and  the 
whole  district  paraded  about,  while  fellows  whom  he 
had  licked  in  their  younger  days  were  made  district 
captains,  and  assistant  captains,  and  all  variety  of 
political  helpers.  He  would  have  given  a  finger  or  so 
for  the  four  weeks  of  brief  authority  held  by  a  captain's 
helper,  who  could  order  the  common  herd  around, 
and  wait  in  eager  attendance  upon  the  Leader,  at  the 
clubhouse. 

But  Solly  could  never  keep  his  mind  made  up  as  to 
which  party  he  would  ornament  by  his  presence.  The 
blood  of  his  Irish  father  and  his  Jewish  mother  clash- 
ed within  him  always,  causing  him  to  waver  in  his 
opinions  so  that  neither  side  would  bother  with  him. 
It  was  bitterly  humiliating  to  reflect  that  while 
thousands  of  voters  were  spoken  to  caressingly,  their 
families  inquired  for,  their  lightest  wish  respected, 

136 


POLITICAL  BEGINNING  OF  SOLLY  M'GEE 

at  this  time,  he  alone  was  left  to  do  as  he  pleased,  a 
person  not  worth  effort  on  the  part  of  Democrat  or 
Republican. 

Even  the  Socialists  scorned  to  waste  oratory  upon 
this  political  maverick.  He  registered,  and  beyond  a 
joking  challenge  or  so  from  either  side,  no  one  consid- 
ered his  vote  important  enough  to  fight  over.  And  on 
every  side  his  neighbors  brought  back  word  of  the  ter- 
rific battle  which  their  brave  captain  waged  when  the 
shameless  opposition  workers  had  tried  to  prove 
these  neighbors'  papers  irregular.  Once  a  Morgan 
man  had  buttonholed  Solly,  sternly  inquired  how  long 
he  had  lived  in  the  house  of  Abraham  Adamosky,  and 
how  many  other  men  slept  in  his  bed  as  well  as  he. 
But  a  Democratic  captain  had  come  along — Solly  had 
just  succeeded  in  convincing  himself  that  the  coun- 
try's interests  would  best  be  served  if  he  voted  the 
Democratic  ticket — laughingly  whispered  to  the 
Morgan  inspector,  who  looked  at  Solly,  laughed,  and 
walked  off. 

Others  could  joy  in  the  privilege  of  a  day  or  so 
in  the  station-house,  with  plenty  of  grub  and  a  pleas- 
ing warmth  in  one's  cell,  until  Their  Party  got  them 
out,  with  no  work  to  do  during  that  lazy  holiday,  but 
not  Solly.  It  was  tough  lines.  He  angrily  withdrew 
his  support  from  the  Tammany  ranks,  and  became 
violently  Republican  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  when 
he  found  that  every  man  over  twenty-one  in  his  house 
excepting  himself  had  been  bidden  to  a  feast  that  even- 
ing, at  which  a  keg  of  beer  and  mounds  of  food  would 
tempt  the  appetites  of  the  guests. 

The  Socialists  had  a  ticket,  for  which  they  worked 
as  hard  and  enthusiastically  as  if  it  really  amounted  to 
something,  and  they  made  speeches  and  burned  red- 
fire,  and  drove  some  weary  old  horses  about,  drawing 
the  trucks  full  of  speakers  who  labored  for  the  Cause. 

Solly  rung  in  with  these  earnest-souls  by  cheerfully 
offering  to  circulate  through  the  crowds  to  stir  up 
applause,  and  help  beat  off  both  Republicans  and 

137 


POLITICAL  BEGINNING  OF  SOLLY  M'GEE 

Democrats  when  the  Gorillas  bore  down  upon  the 
Socialist  trucks,  intent  on  breaking  up  the  meeting. 

For  four  nights,  as  soon  as  his  long  day  in  the  barber 
shop  of  Cohen  Bros.,  where  he  trimmed  the  beards 
of  the  old  "poppa  guys,"  as  he  disrespectfully  termed 
the  various  soiled  old  men  who  dug  the  price  of  this 
attention  out  of  a  store  of  pennies  craftily  cached  in 
a  once  white  sock.  Solly's  unstable  mind  reeked  with 
Socialism,  because  at  last  a  man  who  was  not  aware  of 
the  universal  contempt  in  which  Solly's  vote  was  held, 
took  him  privately  to  a  coffee  and  cake  saloon,  fed  and 
watered  him,  and  explained  that  Solly's  vote  was 
needed  and  needed  badly. 

Saturday  night  before  election  Solly  worked  late  in 
the  shop.  He  shaved  a  Republican  captain,  and  the  cap- 
tain, who  had  noted  Solly  busily  legging  it  with  pitch- 
ers of  water  for  the  Socialist  speakers  to  cool  the  fires 
which  burned  within  them,  became  curious.  "Made 
up  your  mind  yet?"  he  inquired.  "A  smart  feller  like 
youse  shouldn't  let  them  anarchists  con  youse."  Solly 
smiled  amiably. 

"I  ain't  the  only  one,"  said  he,  and  he  named  several 
voters  on  whom  the  captain  had  lavished  some  "sugar," 
with  $2  apiece  (or  three  for  $5,  where  the  "constit" 
brought  recruits  with  him),  due  on  Election  Day, 
considering  them  roped  and  tied  to  his  party 

He  paid  for  his  shave,  and  left,  thinking  hard. 
When  Solly  came  out  the  captain  hailed  him,  and  he 
talked  in  a  low  tone  for  ten  minutes.  "Git  a  little  sense 
intuh  yer  nut,  an'  I  can  use  youse,  see?"  he  urged. 
"I  kin  see  where  we've  overlooked  a  bet." 

He  offered  $20  in  real  money  for  a  certain  service, 
and  Solly  agreed  to  deliver  the  goods.  At  last  he  was 
as  good  as  any  other  man,  and  better.  His  bribe  was 
bigger.  That  he  had  "been,  warned,  on  pain  of  a  term 
at  "Larry's  Farm,"  to  be  silent,  was  the  only  sad 
feature.  It  would  be  so  fine  to  show  the  hoi  polloi  that 
he  was  no  lobster. 

Discretion  prompts  that  the  exact  location  of 

138 


POLITICAL  BEGINNING  OF  SOLLY  M'GEE 

Solly's  captain's  polling  place  be  not  too  closely  de- 
scribed, for  the  good  of  all  concerned.  The  man  who 
owned  the  kosher  chicken  establishment,  and  joy- 
fully pouched  his  $60  for  its  use  on  registration  and 
elecion  days,  would  need  a  new  door  next  day.  It 
was  a  good  enough  door  when  the  ballot  box  was 
set  against  it,  but  a  half  hour  later,  as  the  gloomy 
dawn  of  a  rainy  election  grew  lighter,  a  large  round 
hole  was  cut  in  it,  through  which  a  hand  might  reach 
a  ballot  as  it  was  cast. 

The  hand  belonged  to  Solly.  Suddenly  a  trusted  aid 
appeared,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  his  eye- 
lashes dusting  the  edge  of  the  hole  as  he  watched  for 
the  folded  papers  as  they  dropped  down.  Solly 
held  a  pad  and  pencil,  and  a  signal  from  out  in 
front  warned  him  of  the  identity  of  the  voter — (of  the 
424  in  the  precinct  both  Democrats  and  Republicans 
knew  every  man),  and  the  damning  evidence  of  which 
way  each  had  voted  went  down  on  the  pad  after  the 
watchful  Solly  had  calmly  inspected  the  marks. 
What  happened  to  the  deceivers  who  took  Republi- 
can sugar  and  threw  their  votes  to  the  Socialists  was 
too  horrible  to  relate — 'but  they  got  theirs. 

And  next  year,  showing  the  fickleness  of  Fate, 
Solly  worked  no  longer  in  the  shop.  He  played  the 
races  instead,  and  the  leader  gave  him  tips — good 
ones,  too.  He  was  a  district  captain,  having  under- 
neath him  the  very  man  who  had  given  him  his 
chance.  And  everybody  in  the  neighborhood  greets 
Solly  McGee  respectfully  as  he  goes  about  with  the 
Leader  and  looks  wise.  You  can't  keep  a  good  man 
down. 


139 


How  the  Soubrettes  Broke  a 
Lease. 

BIRDIE  and  Mignon  were  up  against  it.  They  had  a 
long  lease  on  an  expensive  apartment  in  a  classy  uptown 
hotel,  and  it  was  nothing  but  kick  all  the  time. 

The  restaurant,  represented  by  the  smart  looking  man- 
ager as  a  place  where  the  most  delightful  of  meals  might 
be  secured,  was  an  awful  thing.  A  cockroach  had  hast- 
ened over  the  edge  of  Birdie's  breakfast  tray,  appearing 
from  under  a  plate  of  limp  and  smoky  toast,  and  sent 
the  poor  girl  into  violent  hysterics,  so  that  when  she 
reached  rehearsal  her  nerves  were  in  a  dreadful  state. 
This  was  on  a  Monday.  At  dinner,  when  the  ladies  dined 
alone,  a  family  of  small  but  active  ants  ran  about  the 
white  linen  and  nicely  polished  silver.  It  was  most  un- 
pleasant. 

Tuesday  was  cleaning  day,  when  a  flock  of  servants 
unfamiliar  with  the  English  language,  but  gifted  with  an 
almost  uncanny  knowledge  of  the  whereabouts  of  alco- 
holic liquids,  invaded  the  rooms,  under  direction  of  the 
maid.  They  cleaned  thoroughly  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
cellarette  filled  with  liqueurs  and  the  cupboard  which 
held  the  whisky.  The  maid  swiped,  at  odd  times,  various 
lace  trimmed  articles  of  lingerie;  the  scrubwoman  who 
washed  the  tiled  bathroom  and  made  its  nickel  appliances 
shiny  collected  bedspreads  and  sheets;  she  was  evidently 
a  practical  person. 

The  hotel  furnished  "service,"  and  all  the  guests  needed 
to  do  was  to  tip  the  servants  an  amount  for  which  they 
might  have  hired  a  couple  of  minions  to  work  exclusively 
for  them. 

140 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

Birdie  and  Mignon  had  furnished  their  bijou  apart- 
ment very  prettily.  It  was  all  in  olive  green,  with  pale 
rose  walls.  It  contrasted  well  with  Mignon's  blond  locks 
and  Birdie's  Spanish  beauty. 

But  you  can't  eat  walls.  "We  simply  can't  get  a  decent 
thing  to  eat  in  the  place,"  mourned  Birdie.  "And  if  the 
servants  would  only  drink  the  wine  which  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  sells  it,  sends  up — but  they  won't !  They  lick 
up  our  booze  and  our  liqueurs,  and  we  have  to  pay  real 
money  for  'em.  And  the  rent's  so  high. 

"Well,  get  out,"  advised  the  listener.  "It's  a  furnished 
flat,  ain't  it?" 

"My  gracious,  no !"  said  Mignon  sadly.  "It's  all  our 
furniture,  and  we're  on  a  lease.  They're  always  promis- 
ing to  do  better,  but  they  don't.  And  I  can  hardly  do  my 
dance,  the  way  I  feel.  We'll  just  have  to  live  there  till 
we  die."  She  wept  two  big  tears,  and  Birdie  cut  in  with 
a  sniffle.  "We  wish  we  were  dead,"  she  declared.  The 
friend  began  to  laugh.  Then  he  said  he  had  a  plan,  and 
when  he  had  disclosed  it,  the  three  burst  into  wild  laugh- 
ter. 

"Bill,  it's  the  limit,  but  it's  grand,"  giggled  Birdie. 

*         *         * 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  the  show  was  over  and 
the  girls  had  washed  off  their  make-up  and  got  into  street 
clothes.  They  swept  into  the  hotel  office,  attended  by 
three  heavy  gentlemen  in  well-cut  overcoats,  with  their 
collars  turned  up.  Behind  them  followed  a  large  blond 
lady,  regal  in  a  long  coat  of  sable  and  a  squatty,  slanting 
hat  of  the  very  latest  mode.  With  her  walked  two  small 
gentlemen,  of  most  respectable  appearance. 

Two  larger  gentlemen,  escorting  a  husky  brunette  lady 
in  prune  colored  velvet,  with  a  plentitude  of  ermine  and 
diamonds,  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  manager  complacently  watched  the  party  squeeze 
into  the  elevator.  "Why  ain't  all  actresses  like  that?" 
he  asked  of  the  clerk.  "See  their  friends,  all  rich,  of 
course,  and  elegantly  dressed.  Gives  a  place  plenty  of 

141 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

tone.  We  throw  any  old  kind  of.  con  at  those  girls,  and 
they  stand  for  it.  I  hate  the  sort  of  guest  that  insists  on 
his  rights,  eternally.  And  anyway,  they  know  they've 
got  to  stick  that  lease  out." 

"Ting,  ling,  ling,  a-ling !"  went  the  'phone  by  the  clerk. 

"Hello,"  he  said.     "Yes." 

"Send  up  eleven  club  sandwiches  and  thirty-two  bottles 
of  light  beer,"  said  a  voice. 

"Very  sorry,  cafe's  closed,"  replied  the  clerk.  Then, 
"WHAT  did  you  say  ?"  he  shouted  angrily. 

"Go  to  hell !"  came  back.  "It's  33 !"  gasped  the  clerk. 
"Those  girls!  Did  you  hear  it?  They  SWORE  at  me!" 

They  consulted,  and  finally  decided  to  let  it  drop. 

"But  they  better  cut  such  talk  as  that  out !"  announced 
the  manager.  "The  idea !" 


In  No.  33  all  was  busy.  The  blond  lady  was  calmly 
stripping  off  her  sables.  "Say,  gimme  an  old  kimona ; 
sitmpin'  easy,  Mig,"  said  she.  "1  can't  jump  in  my  corset. 
My  grief,  I  came  near  laughing  in  that  guy's  face  when 
we  passed  him  down  there." 

The  big  brunette  was  in  the  bathroom,  removing  her 
velvet  gown.  "Lemme  take  a  sheet.  I'll  use  it  for  a 
wrapper!"  she  called,  gaily.  "I  couldn't  get  into  your 
duds,  gells.  Too  small !  My,  if  this  ain't  a  lark !" 

The  male  guests  took  off  their  overcoats,  displaying 
workmanlike  costumes  of  trousers  and  sweaters.  Sam, 
the  very  smallest,  who  was  the  comedy  man  in  his  acro- 
batic act,  possessed  the  gruffest  voice,  so  he  it  was  who 
used  cuss  words  over  the  telephone.  The  overcoats  and 
wraps  were  hung  in  a  closet,  hastily  emptied  of  its  store 
of  rustling  skirts,  the  property  of  Birdie  and  Mignon. 
The  biggest  man  then  took  charge.  His  name  was  Willie, 
and  he  was  a  Broadway  rounder,  so  you  know  he  wouldn't 
shy  at  much  short  of  manslaughter.  The  rest  were  equally 
indifferent  as  to  what  became  of  them. 

"You  two,"  he  said  to  Birdie  and  Mignon,  "pack  your 
clothes.  Did  you  get  the  trunks  down  like  I  told  you  ?" 

142 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

The  trunks  were  there,  stacked  up  in  a  row  along  by 
the  piano.  "Now,  you  just  pack,  see?"  he  went  on. 
"We'll  do  the  rough  house  business." 

"Oh,  Willie,"  cried  Mignon,  fearfully.  "P'praps  we 
better  not  do  it!  Oh,  just  s'posing  he'd  have  us  all 
pinched !'' 

"Hully  gee,  Mig,  don't  get  cold  feet,"  said  Charlie,  the 
largest  acrobat.  ''Ain't  we  got  it  all  fixed  at  the  station 
house?  This  guy's  got  a  fine  chance  if  he  does  make  a 
beef.  Now,  fellers,  commence!" 

The  party  began.  The  biggest  blonde  suddenly  smote 
the  largest  man,  who  was  a  comedian,  and  used  to  knocks, 
right  in  the  solar  plexus.  They  clinched,  and  went 
crashing  to  the  floor  amid  screams  and  yells  from  the 
audience.  The  big  brunette,  still  screeching,  flew  to  the 
piano.  As  she  started  to  take  a  seat  upon  the  piano  stool, 
one  waggish  soul  pulled  it  away.  She  hit  the  floor  with 
a  thud  which  was  of  the  dull,  sickening  variety. 

"Hoop,  la!"  she  shouted,  merrily,  and  hurled  herself 
into  the  struggling  mass  on  the  sitting  room  floor,  for 
everybody  was  mixing  up  in  the  burlesque  scrap. 

"Gee,  what  a  scene  for  an  afterpiece !"  gasped  the  big 
blonde,  as  she  rolled  out  from  under  the  couch,  on  top  of 
which  the  smallest  acrobat  was  doing  head  stands.  Some- 
body grabbed  her  arm,  and  in  a  second  she  was  joyously 
pummeling  Willie.  She  was  Willie's  wife,  so  probably 
she  handed  him  a  wallop  or  two  that  was  on  the  level. 

"Time!"  he  called,  but  she  basely  punched  him,  any- 
way, in  a  very  unsportsmanlike  way. 

"Darn  it,  Aggie!"  he  expostulated.  "This  is  a  kid! 
Don't  soak  me  like  that  again!" 

Every  one  sat  on  the  floor  and  waited,  with  their  ears 
close  to  the  ground.  Footsteps  sounded  outside  in  the 
main  hall,  where  agitated  tenants  were  massing,  angrily 
demanding  that  the  row  next  door  cease  at  once,  if  not 
sooner. 

"It's  all  right,  they're  going  to  complain !  At  it  again, 
folks !"  Whispered  Willie.  Jimmy  and  Harold,  who 
were  songwriters  and  a  pair  of  regular  clips,  sat  down 

143 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

at  the  piano.  They  consulted  a  brief  instant  only,  then, 
each  playing  a  different  tune,  they  burst  into  a  wild  bed- 
lam of  sound. 

"Pack,  gells,  pack!"  urged  the  big  blonde  as  she 
grabbed  the  end  of  a  trunk,  signalling  to  Willie,  who 
grinned  delightedly. 

Smash !  went  the  trunk,  as  they  lifted,  then  dropped  it. 
It  made  a  lovely  noise. 

"But  my  old  man !"  shrieked  the  whole  crowd,  madly, 
finishing  a  chorus,  as  the  artists  at  the  tortured  piano 
ceased  for  breath. 

"In  dear  old  Gawgah,  mah  Southern  ho-oome,"  wailed 
Harold,  through  his  nose,  the  next  minute,  with  Jimmy 
playing  the  accompaniment  in  ragtime,  while  the  big 
brunette  performed  independently  upon  four  keys  at  ths 
O.  P.  side. 

"Hey,  gimme  a  little  cold  turkey,  Harold !"  It  was 
Johnny  Cook,  the  buck  dancer,  who  had  been  busily  em- 
ployed by  Birdie  in  rolling  and  tying  all  the  rugs  but 
one,  upon  which  he  now  slid  about  on  the  polished  floor, 
doing  an  imitation  of  Washington  crossing  the  Delaware. 
Rap !  Rap !  "Open  this  door !"  commanded  some  one  out- 
side, and  the  'phone's  ringing  showed  that  there  would 
soon  be  plenty  doing. 

"Dear  Old  Georgia"  gave  way  to  "Turkey  in  the 
Straw."  And  young  Mr.  Cook  began  dancing  a  thun- 
derous buck,  with  all  those  not  at  the  suffering  piano 
clapping  and  yelling. 

"I'll  break  i't  in !" 

"G'wan  and  open  the  door,  Willie!"  ordered  Willie's 
wife,  draping  her  sheet  anew  over  her  noble  figure.  Willie 
bravely  did  her  bidding.  The  manager,  red-faced  and 
very  haughty,  tried  to  push  past  Willie's  ponderous  bulk. 

"Stop  this  outrageous  conduct  THIS  MINUTE!"  he 
choked  out.  A  dozen  interested  tenants,  some  grinning, 
others  angry,  endeavored  to  squeeze  close  enough  to  get 
a  look  at  the  doings  inside  No.  33. 

"We'll  quit  when  we  want  to,  see,  Clarence?"  stated 
Willie,  rudely. 

144 


MOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

"Give  'im  a  punch  in  the  lamp,  Bill!"  came  from 
within. 

"You'll  stop  it  NOW !  It's  3  o'clock,  and  I  won't  have 
it !  This  ain't  the  Bowery !  Where  are  the  persons  who 
rent  this  apartment  ?  I  demand  to  see  them !" 

"Put  those  hussies  out,  Mr.  Goodplayer!  I  won't 
live  here  another  day  if  you  don't !"  said  an  irate  female. 

Birdie,  dauntless  girl,  sped  down  the  hall  to  the  door. 
"Hussy,  am  I  ?"  she  trilled.  "I  know  who's  talking !  It's 
that  dame  with  the  rhinestone  joolry  who  tried  to  butt 
in  and  get  in  our  set,  and  got  a  throw-down!  Hussy, 
yourself !" 

"Oh,  Heavens,  this  is  unspeakable!"  stormed  the  lady 
addressed,  shrinking  into  her  own  hall.  A  mean  male 
tenant  snickered.  (He  was  a  bachelor.)  "They're  two 
swell  looking  gals,  you  bet,"  he  said,  approvingly,  to  his 
sleepy-eyed  valet,  who  had  roused  him  to  view  the  fun. 
'Tm'for  them." 

"Don't  you  dare  encourage  this  gang  of  hoodlums, 
sir !"  yelled  the  manager. 

"Come  on  in !  Don't  you  care !"  giggled  Birdie,  dar- 
ingly, and  amidst  a  chorus  of,  "Oh,  how  shameful,"  from 
the  better  element,  the  supporter  of  beauty,  graciously 
bowed  in  by  Willie,  joined  33  unblushingly. 

"My  name's  John  Sinclair!"  he  announced,  when  led 
into  33's  sitting-room.  "I'm  delighted.  Say,  what  ARE 
you  people  up  to?" 

When  he  heard  the  plan,  he  advised  still  more  noise. 
It  was  no  time  for  ceremony,  and  when  they  had  fitted 
Mr.  Sinclair  out  with  a  drink  he  was  like  an  old  and 
cherished  friend. 

"Let  me  send  Muggins  for  a  moving  van,  eh?"  he 
suggested.  "We  can  get  'em  here  by  5  o'clock.  Gosh ! 
If  he  puts  you  out,  you  have  to  go,  and  don't  give  him 
any  time  to  repent."  The  disturbed  manager  had  uttered 
a  final  threat  before  departing.  But  he  was  lurking  about, 
near  at  hand,  that  was  certain.  Muggins,  the  valet,  was 
called,  and  dispatched  for  a  van. 

All  hands,  appealed  to  by  Mignon,  who  had  the  pack- 

145 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

ing  nearly  finished,  took  twenty  minutes  to  stuff  odd  things 
into  chiffonier  drawers,  fill  suit  cases,  do  up  bundles  of 
pictures,  and  tie  mattresses  in  sheets,  roping  them  se- 
curely. Make-up  boxes,  powder  rags,  fronts  and  switches 
of  brunette  and  blond  hues,  were  bundled  into  waste 
paper  baskets. 

"Oh,  don't,  I'll  fix  'em!"  pleaded  Mignon  in  girlish 
embarrassment,  as  the  prop  hair  was  waved  aloft  by 
Harold,  who  had  hit  the  cheering  rye  bottle  many  times, 
and  was  ever  so  cheerful  in  consequence. 

"Great  Scott,  ain't  we  all  in  the  show  business?"  in- 
quired Charlie.  "What's  the  odds?" 

The  furniture  was  placed  conveniently  for  a  quick  get- 
away when  the  van  men  should  come. 

"Now,  up  and  at  it !"  said  Willie,  breathless  from  toting 
a  big  theatre  trunk  into  the  narrow  hall.  "He  hasn't 
said  get  out  yet,  so  we'll  make  him  do  it."  Harold  and 
Jimmy  held  down  the  piano ;  Mignon  sat  beside  the  lively 
Mr.  Sinclair  on  a  rolled  up  mattress. 

Young  Mr.  Cook  made  ready  for  another  spirited  buck 
dance.  The  big  blonde  and  the  big  brunette  were  there 
when  it  came  to  dancing.  Before  both  had  became  bur- 
lesque queens  they  had  played  the  varieties  from  Harry 
Morosco's  to  Tony  Pastor's  as  a  singing  and  dancing 
sister  act.  They  carried  a  little  overweight  now,  but  they 
could  still  hit  it  up  at  a  lively  gait. 

The  music  started;  so  did  the  dancing.  The  rest 
stamped  and  clapped  and  yelled.  Birdie,  excited,  caught 
up  her  skirts  and  joined  the  heavyweights,  but  Mignon, 
who  could  spot  an  angel  every  time,  made  goo-goos  at 
Mr.  Sinclair.  Even  in  such  a  short  time  she  had  him 
going,  and  he  had  fondly  inquired  why  a  clever  girl  like 
she  wasn't  out  doing  the  Camille  Clifford.  It  looked  as  if 
he'd  be  digging  up  for  a  musical  comedy  before  long, 
because  Mignon  had  an  awfully  winning  way  with  her. 

Even  above  the  din  they  heard  the  enemy  knocking  on 
the  outside  door.  Birdie,  backed  by  Willie  and  Charlie, 
the  huskiest  acrobat,  opened  it  fearlessly.  The  proprietor 
and  the  manager  were  there. 

146 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

"Well?"  remarked  Birdie.    The  uproar  inside  kept  on. 

The  proprietor  made  a  long  speech.  He  said  they  had 
to  leave  his  house,  and  leave  it  mighty  quick.  They  had 
broken  the  lease,  and  he  wouldn't  have  such  a  band  of 
rowdies  in  his  respectable  hotel. 

Birdie  was  just  as  sassy  as  he  was.  She  asked  what 
about  his  shine  meals  and  thieving  servants,  his  cock- 
roaches and  ants,  and  the  overcharges  on  the  bills. 

"You  get  out — leave!  That's  all  I  got  to  say!"  he 
said,  scowling.  "You  ain't  respectable." 

"You're  a  liar!"  cried  Birdie.  "You,  and  your  chorus 
gell,  who  you  go  to  supper  with,  and  you  married !"  she 
added. 

It  became  a  personal  war.  Each  said  biting  things, 
and  Birdie,  had  she  not  been  restrained  by  the  prudent 
Willie,  would  have  slapped  the  enemy's  countenance. 

She  was  really  mad,  and  when  she  rejoined  the  circle 
of  friendly  Indians,  she  swore  she'd  get  even.  Just  then 
the  van  man  arrived,  led  by  the  intrepid  Muggins,  who 
had  got  him  up  out  of  bed.  Four  large  men  were  along. 
They  seized  upon  the  furniture,  hustled  it  out,  their  heavy 
boots  clattering  upon  the  tiled  floors  of  the  main  halls 
like  a  charge  of  circus  elephants. 

Those  within  were  laughing — all  but  Birdie.  A  hectic 
flush  burned  in  her  fair  cheeks,  and  it  was  real,  too.  She 
cast  an  infuriated  eye  about  their  erstwhile  happy  home. 
It  fell  upon  the  two  long  mirrors,  set  in  the  wall,  for  this 
was  an  apartment  fitted  with  all  manner  of  charming  de- 
vices. A  hammer  lay  on  the  piano,  and  she  grasped  it. 

"I'll  fix  his  flat !"  she  screeched,  and  with  one  swoop 
she  broke  that  glass  into  quivering  bits,  which  fell  in  a 
shower  about  her  feet.  The  proprietor,  watching  the 
departure  of  his  tenants'  property,  gleefully  rubbed  his 
hands. 

"They're  breaking  their  stuff  and  licking  each  other, 
and  I  hope  they  all  choke,"  he  said,  happily.  The  smash- 
ing went  on,  and  he  joyed  still  more.  Birdie  had  demol- 
ished the  second  glass,  and  her  friends,  catching  her 
festive  spirit,  snatched  anything  they  found,  and  as  Slats 

.147 


HOW  THE  SOUBRETTES  BROKE  A  LEASE. 

observed,  they  "put  it  on  the  fritzerine  for  fair." 

As  a  parting  jest,  Charlie,  Slats  and  Sam  did  some 
funny  falls. 

The  ceiling  was  too  low  to  permit  all  three  to  mount 
on  each  other's  shoulders  and  stand  erect,  so  Slats,  the 
top-mounter  in  the  act,  bent  over,  standing  on  Sam,  who 
was  astride  of  Charlie,  the  strong  man. 

"Go!"  called  Charlie,  and  go  they  did,  taking  the  art 
nouveau  chandelier  with  them  in  the  descent. 

As  the  trio  bowed  to  the  delighted  onlookers,  the  van 
men  took  out  the  last  piece  of  baggage.  The  ladies  hur- 
ried into  their  handsome  garments,  the  gentlemen  washed 
their  soiled  hands,  and  all  were  done. 

Mr.  Sinclair  was  still  in  full  dress.  "Where  do  you 
go  from  here?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  book  that  far  ahead,"  remarked  Harold,  brill- 
iantly. But  Mignon  named  the  hotel.  Birdie  had  hastily 
powdered  her  fevered  cheeks  and  shiny  nose,  and  assumed 
her  furs  and  wraps.  Mr.  Sinclair  was  a  sport.  "If  you'll 
stand  for  these  duds,"  he  began,  entreatingly,  "let's  all 
go  down  to  Mack's  for  breakfast.  Will  you?  Come 
on,  do." 

"Will  I  get  autos,  or  cabs,  sir?"  asked  Muggins,  defer- 
entially. 

"Get  a  bunch  of  both,  Mug,"  returned  his  employer, 
gallantly  offering  his  arm  to  the  lovely  and  coonful 
Mignon.  Heads  up  and  manner  haughty,  the  party  left 
the  hotel. 

The  day  clerk  had  just  come  on  watch,  and  heard  the 
scandal.  He  watched  them  enviously  as  they  waited  out- 
side in  the  chill  Winter  air  for  the  cabs  and  autos.  "That's 
the  life,  you  bet,"  he  sighed. 


The   Manager's   New   Wife. 

THE  LANDLADY  (dropping  into  a  chair) — I'm  wore 
out;  I  ain't  hadda  chanct  tuh  grab  a  cuppa  cawfee 
since  brekfus.  Been  puttin'  up  noo  curtains  in  the 
second  floor  front  'cause  the  manager  of  the  "Beauti- 
ful Bowery  Blondes"  is  here  on  his  weddia'  trip.  He 
says  tuh  me,  "Mis'  De  Shine,"  he  says,  "I  didn't  know 
whether  tuh  go  tuh  the  Waldof,  or  come  here,  but 
yer  cookin's  grand,  so  here  we  are."  '  Sam's  a  fine 
fella.  I  dunno's  I  approve  of  him  marryin'  outa  the 
business,  but  she's  goodlookin'. 

THE  SOUBRETTE— Dyuh  think  so?  She's  laced 
sumpin'  fierce.  I  see  'em  comin'  in  yestiddy,  I  wun- 
ner  ef  Sam  give  her  them  stones.  I  guess  he's  got 
the  price,  seein'  salaries  he  pays. 

MISS  IVA  LINE  (in  the  chorus)— Them  gelis  has 
tuh  live  on  almost  nothin',  an'  he  won't  let  nobuddy 
in  back.  I  dunno  how  he  expects  a  lady  tuh  live  ef 
no  one's  allowed  tuh  mix  in  an'  ast  'em  out  tuh  grub. 

THE  BURLESQUE  QUEEN  (celebrated  as  one 
of  the  700  "best  gowned  and  most  beautiful"  bur- 
lesque queens  in  the  business) — My  dear,  he's  per- 
fectly right.  Looka  me,  I've  rose,  an'  I  kin  thank  the 
same  manager  I  got  now  fur  shieldin'  me  from  temp- 
tation when  I  fust  went  on  the  stage.  Johnnies  is 
better  kep'  off. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— They're  all  fourflushin', 
anyway.  Got  good  clothes  and  thirty  cents. 

MISS  IVA  LINE  (tossing  her  head  haughtily)— 
Well,  they  was  a  party  follered  us  fur  eleving  jumps 
last  season,  an'  he  sent  me  a  pieca  joolry  every  per- 
formance. I  don't  call  that  bein'  a  dub. 

149 


THE  MANAGER'S  NEW  WIFE. 

THE  SOUBRETTE  (oh,  these  kindhearted  girlies !) 
— What'd  yuh  do  with  'em,  Clara?  I  ain't  seen  yuh 
wear  none  of  it. 

THE  LANDLADY— ^Susy,  if  Coppit  &  Blow,  them 
acrobats  on  the  top  floor  back,  starts  tuh  set  down, 
tell  'em  I  said  they  gotta  settle  or  nothin'  doin'.  Them 
guys  been  stallin'  me,  sayin'  they're  restin',  an'  here  I've 
found  they're  doin'  six  shows  a  day  at  the  Sans  Souci. 
Kin  yuh  beat  a  deceitful  acrobat?  An'  me  treatin' 
them  boys  like  I  was  their  maw.  It's  what  I  git  fur 
havin'  a  heart;  I  can't  never  say  no. 

THE  SLAVEY— Lady  at  the  door  says,  is  Nat  M. 
Wills  Stoppin'  here?  She  wants  tuh  leave  a  bookay 
fur  him. 

THE  LANDLADY  (bitterly)— No,  them  Broad- 
way swells  is  too  good  tuh  stop  here.  Tell  her  tuh 
ast  at  the  Saint  Ragis.  Well,  I  knowed  him  when  he  was 
in  vodeville.  Kin  yuh  tell  me  where  Spencer  Kelly's 
went? 

THE  END  MAN — Spencer's  in  vodeville.  There's 
a  guy  kin  sing,  too,  lemme  tell  yuh  that.  Me  an'  him 
ust  tuh  beat  the  races  reg'lar. 

THE  BLACKFACE  COMEDIAN  (a  little  sore 
because  the  End  Man  nailed  the  job  he  was  after)— 
Well,  Bill,  I  hope  you  have  luck  and  last,  my  boy.  I 
was  with  'em  last  season,  but  I  was  too  big  a  hit,  an' 
that's  why  I'm  playin'  dates.  I  never  got  no  less'n 
seven  encores  an'  nachally  the  star  puts  up  a  holler. 
I  don't  blame  him. 

THE  BUCK  DANCER— Where  are  you  on  the 
bill  at  Moctor's  this  week?  I  must  comfc  in  an'  ketch 
you  guys. 

THE  BLACKFACE  COMEDIAN  (reluctantly)— 
Well,  we  open  the  show,  but  it's  a  piece  of  spite  work. 
They  was  afraid  ef  they  give  us  a  decent  place  we'd 
kill  the  topliner.  Never  again  fur  me,  I  gotta  be 
featured,  or  I  don't  work. 

THE   SOUBRETTE— I   guess   he   won't  be   doin' 

150 


THE  MANAGER'S  NEW  WIFE. 

nothin'  this  Winter,  then.  Gee !  here  comes  Sam  an' 
his  noo  wife !  She's  got  one  them  waists  like  I  was 
tellin'  yuh  about,  Flossie — $2.98,  marked  down  from 
four.  I  shud  think  he  cud  git  her  sumpin'  better. 
Say,  her  switch  don't  match;  ain't  that  the  offlost 
lookin'  thing  yuh  ever  see?  (The  boarders  all  take 
a  look.) 

THE  LANDLADY  (bustling  up,  ushers  the  new- 
comers into  their  seats) — How  d'yuh  feel,  Mis' 
Smith?  Now,  we  got  corn  beef  an'  cabbitch  an'  fish. 
But  I  kin  give  yuh  a  pieca  steak.  Sam  allus  likes 
steak — there,  I've  done  it!  Yunno  I've  knowed  Sam 
so  long  I'm  furgettin'  an'  callin'  him  by  his  fust  name 
— Susy,  she'll  have  a  pieca  steak. 

THE  BURLESQUE  QUEEN— I  s'pose  yuh'll  go 
on  the  road  with  the  show,  Mis'  Smith?  It'll  be  noo 
fur  yuh. 

THE  SOUBRETTE — I  s'pose  she  ain't  never  even 
been  behind ! 

SAM'S  WIFE  (with  perfect  self-possession)— Well, 
I  don't  know.  It  keeps  me  busy  watchin'  my  own 
shows — yunno  I  got  two  burlesques  out  that  my  fust 
husband  left  me — an'  I  dunno's  I  kin  go  with  him. 
Please  pass  the  bread. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Them  dames  had  her 
down  fur  a  mark.  I  guess  that'll  hold  'em  fur  a  while. 

THE  BURLESQUE  QUEEN— Oh!  Rully! 

MISS  IVA  LINE— I  knowed  HE  wudn't  marry  no 
one  without  a  bankroll.  I'll  bettcha  she's  fifty,  too, 
D'yuh  think  them  rings  is  real?  I  don't. 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy,  go  gitta  clean  plate. 
My  Gawd!  yuh  stand  there  like  a  lobster.  Sam,  try 
some  these  pitattas. 

THE  END  MAN— Say,  fine  fur  Sam.  She's  a 
bird,  ain't  she?  Bet  she's  a  good  fella.  Got  nice  eyes. 

THE  BLACKFACE  COMEDIAN— I  don't  want  no 
marryin'  in  mine.  My  wife  run  off  with  a  bum  circus 


THE  MANAGER'S  NEW  WIFE. 

bandman,  an*  I'm  glad  of  it.  Not  fur  me.  I  don't 
like  that  skirt's  face. 

^  THE  BUCK  DANCER— They  got  a  private  bath. 
She  makes  Sam  git  his  nails  manicured.  Like  tuh  see 
any  fairy  boss  me. 

HIS  '.WIFE  (from  qutside)— Jack!  C'mere  this 
minnit  an'  carry  up  my  soot  case!  Told  you  not  to 
dare  tuh  g'win  tuh  dinner  till  I  got  back  from  re- 
hearsal! (The  Buck  Dancer  departs  hastily,  and  is 
heard  apologizing  meekly;  then  door  closes.) 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Haw!  Haw!  He'll 
ketch  it.  She's  got  a  punch  that's  all  the  goods,  too. 
Bet  she  wallops  him. 

THE  LANDLADY— All  yuh  folks  what's  through, 
vamoose — see?  Set  still,  Sam,  an'  finish  y'r  supper, 
an'  yuh  have  some  more  puddin',  Billy.  (All  exit, 
grumbling,  except  the  Manager,  His  Wife  and  the 
End  Man.) 

THE  END  MAN— You  shut  'em  up,  all  right,  Effie. 
I  had  to  laugh.  I  let  on  I'd  never  seen  you. 

THE  MANAGER — Say,  Maggie,  send  across  the 
street,  and  I'll  buy  a  nice  cold  quart  for  us  four. 
Thev  think  you're  really  in  the  business,  Effie. 

HIS  WIFE— Well,  I  guess  I  can  hand  that  bunch 
as  good  as  they  send.  I  heard  every  word  they  said 
about  me. 

THE  END  MAN— Here's  luck,  Sam!  (Drinks)— 
Where  do  you  go  from  here? 


Mary    Had    to    Have    Her 
Broadway. 

"ARE  we  there?"  anxiously  queried  Miss  Mary  Dun- 
woodie  Marshall,  and  the  Pullman  conductor  replied  that 
they  were.  "Pretty  dark,"  he  observed,  cheerfully,  as  he 
proffered  a  helping  hand,  while  the  porter,  awaiting  his 
tip,  stood  with  her  suit  case  ready. 

"But  is  this  really  Marshalltown ?  Are  you  sure?"  she 
asked,  looking  up  at  the  conductor  uncertainly  from  the 
darkness,  lit  only  by  a  lantern  swung  by  a  brakeman  down 
by  the  baggage  car,  from  whence  came  the  sound  of  a 
trunk  hitting  the  rickety  platform  with  a  loud  thump. 
"Why,  there  are  no  lights !" 

"Here  she  is,  mother;  here's  Mary!"  shrieked  a  voice 
before  the  polite  official  could  answer,  and  a  pair  of  boyish 
arms  embraced  Miss  Marshall,  while  from  all  sides  came 
big  and  little  relatives,  some  bearing  lanterns  and  all  clam- 
oring a  welcome.  The  engine  gave  a  preliminary  toot- 
toot,  then  it  puffed  away  gallantly,  and  the  train,  gather- 
ing speed  as  it  went,  disappeared  into  the  night. 

She  was  at  home  again  after  ten  years  in  the  cold  North, 
battling  for  a  living  like  the  other  "business  women"  who 
toil  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  men.  Back  to  peace 
once  more,  where  Southern  breezes  blew  softly  and  winter 
never  came.  She  kissed  her  sisters,  her  mother  and  all 
the  little  cousins  rapturously. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  lovely  to  be  back !"  she  wept,  foolishly,  into 
the  tallest  cousin's  breast  pocket,  and  he  patted  her  heaving 
shoulders  awkwardly,  while  the  rest  clustered  about,  urg- 
ing her  to  cease.  Then  Miss  Marshall  kissed  them  all 
around  again,  while  the  biggest  cousin  told  a  black  man 

153 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

to  bring  down  the  trunk  on  a  wheelbarrow  and  to  hurry 
about  it. 

"It's  only  a  flag  station  now,  honey,"  said  her  mother, 
as  a  small  cousin  lit  their  way  down  the  sun-hardened 
clay  road,  with  all  the  rest  crowding  close  to  the  traveller 
from  New  York,  hanging  upon  her  lightest  word,  "things 
ah  very  different  than  when  yoh  papah  was  livin',  May. 
I  wrote  yo'  but  it'll  be  a  shock.  Marshalltown's  just  go- 
ing to  rack  and  ruin,  with  the  Carys  and  the  Blackburns 
and  the  Stephen  Johnstones  moved  to  Mobile  and  the 
young  folks  marryin'  and  moving." 

"And  Courtney  Hamilton's  married  tuh  Flora  Thomas 
an'  gone  tuh  Chicago  on  the  weddin'  trip,"  put  in  Alice, 
the  youngest  and  prettiest  sister. 

"Has  she?"  said  Miss  Marshall.  She  wasn't  much  in- 
terested, although  she  tried  hard  to  be.  Flora  Thomas, 
in  days  gone  by,  had  been  her  dearest  friend.  Suddenly, 
forgetting  to  watch  where  she  stepped,  she  tripped  over  a 
log  and  fell.  They  had  her  up  at  once,  but  the  ripping 
noise  which  heralded  the  fact  that  her  best  silk  petticoat 
had  parted  from  a  section  of  flounce  caused  Miss  Marshall 
to  feel  a  sudden  unreasonable  anger  against  Mississippi 
roads  that  couldn't  have  pavements  and  electric  lights. 
The  cousins  were  laughing.  The  biggest  one  remarked 
gaily  that  in  a  week  she'd  know  every  snag  in  the  road 
and  be  able  to  find  her  way  in  the  dark. 

"But  why  on  earth  don't  the  street  cleaners  take  'em 
away?"  demanded  Miss  Marshall,  at  which  her  sister  gig- 
gled and  reminded  her  that  there  were  no  such  persons. 
"We  all  know  where  the  bad  places  are,"  she  explained. 

"Oh !"  said  Miss  Marshall,  vaguely,  inwardly  deciding 
that  much  walking  along  such  a  thoroughfare  would  ruin 
her  neat  patent  leather  oxfords.  They  were  at  the  house 
at  last.  A  row  of  Chinese  lanterns  hung  from  the  roof 
of  the  wfde  veranda  to  welcome  the  guest.  Old  black 
Mammy  Lou  was  on  the  steps,  and  the  twins,  her  sons, 
grown  into  two  slender  yellow-faced  striplings,  while  Miss 
Marshall  remembered  tham  as  a  couple  of  rollicking  picka- 
ninnies tumbling  about  in  every  one's  way.  "Howdy,  Miss 

154 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

Ma'y?"  they  greeted,  grinning,  while  old  mammy  folded 
her  in  a  warm  embrace  and  whispered  that  the  co'hn  pone 
and  ham  and  the  wheaten  biscuit  and  honey  were  waiting 
inside.  But  Miss  Marshall  had  dined  in  the  cafe  car  but 
a  scant  hour  before,  thinking  that  dinner  would  be  over, 
for  the  hour  was  late. 

"An'  yo'  all  finked  ole  mammy  not  gwine  feed  yo?"  re- 
proached mammy.  "Shame  on  yo',  chile,  yo'  mus'  fink 
we  all  like  dem  ole  Yankees,  'way  up  No'th !" 

"You  must  eat  something,  daughter,"  said  her  mother, 
and  Mary,  seated  with  the  interested  relatives  eyeing  her 
smart  brown  gown  and  the  diamond  ring  which  an  ad- 
mirer had  presented  one  Christmas  agreed  that  she  must 
indeed,  with  such  delicacies  spread  out  to  tempt  her.  She 
had  been  writing  homesick  letters  for  years  about  these 
same  dishes,  comparing  the  crisp  French  bread  of  the 
hotel  where  she  was  cashier  with  the  corn  bread  of  her 
Southern  childhood.  Why  was  it,  now  that  she  sat  again 
at  the  old  round  mahogany  table,  which  her  little  fists 
had  pounded  in  baby  days,  that  she  wondered  ungratefully 
just  how  much  she  must  eat  to  satisfy  them.  And  why 
did  a  vision  of  lighted  Broadway,  with  its  crowds,  fit 
across  her  mind,  blotting  out  for  a  brief  instant  the  reality 
of  a  lamp-lit,  low-ceilinged  room,  filled  with  the  loved  ones 
for  whom  she  had  longed  for  years? 

She  was  tired.  That  was  it.  Worn  out  by  the  long, 
dusty  trip  and  the  noise  of  the  train.  It  was  quiet  here, 
with  only  the  sound  of  insests  busy  with  their  nightly 
interchange  of  buzzings  and  chirpings,  to  break  the  still- 
ness. A  dog  barked  in  the  distance  and  their  watchdog 
answered  from  his  place  under  the  veranda.  A  colored 
girl,  another  pickaninny  grown  to  womanhood,  waited 
upon  the  table  noiselessly. 

"Lively?  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  she  answered,  realizing 
that  her  sister  awaited  an  answer.  "What  do  I  do  in 
New  York  ?  Oh,  I  go  to  work  at  8  and  stop  at  5.  Once 
a  week  I  go  to  a  show  with,  with — a  friend."  She  had 
hesitated  for  a  second,  then  left  out  the  friend's  name. 

"Another  young  woman,  I  suppose,"  said  her  mother 

155 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

understandingly.  "Of  course  you  can't  go  out  with  a 
gentleman  without  a  chaperon." 

Without  a  chaperon,  she  who  had  lived  ten  years  in  a 
Broadway  hotel !  And  she  was  30  years  old.  Miss  Mar- 
shall felt  a  desire  to  laugh,  but  she  restrained  it,  nor  did 
she  correct  the  older  lady's  mistake.  "And  the  social  life, 
dear,"  pursued  her  mother,  complacently  buttering  a  bis- 
cuit, which  she  spread  with  jam  and  bestowed  upon  the 
very  smallest  girl  cousin,  who  immediately  tried  to  swal- 
low it  whole,  much  to  the  pleasure  of  the  other  youngsters. 
"I  presume  you've  met,  living  in  such  a  smart  hotel,  many 
of  the  best  people?"  Ye  gods!  Miss  Marshall  thought 
of  the  bookmakers,  the  actresses  and  actors,  all  the  "wise" 
people  who  paid  their  bills,  cashed  their  checks  and  put 
in  I  O  U's  "until  to-morrow"  at  the  cashier's  window 
where  she  officiated.  She  told  them  that  there  wasn't 
much  time  to  go  about,  consequently  her  acquaintances 
were  few,  at  which  her  mother  expressed  approval.  "All 
the  better,  my  dear,"  said  she.  "Of  course,  we  read  the 
papers  you  send — I've  kept  them  all,  just  fancy — and 
know  that  young  women  are  much  advanced,  but  it's  far 
better  for  you  to  visit  at  only  a  few  select  homes.  Far 
better." 

Miss  Marshall  murmured  something  polite.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  tell  them  that  the  only  "home"  she  visited  was  the 
flat  of  Jessie  Fisher,  soubrette  in  a  musical  comedy,  where 
she  and  Jessie  cooked  things,  and  afterward  a  few  jolly 
persons  dropped  in,  played  the  piano  and  had  a  drink  or 
two.  It  would  sound  really  criminal  to  narrate  such  ac- 
tions in  this  respectable  society.  Her  sister  wanted  to 
know  all  about  the  hotel,  how  big  was  her  room  or  did  she 
have  two  ?  No  doubt  Mary  had  a  private  bath  and  elec- 
tric light  and  other  wonders.  One  of  the  Jones  boys  had 
been  to  Pittsburg  and  he  had  returned  with  wild  tales  of 
the  splendor  which  one  found  in  the  big  hotels.  Young 
Miss  Alice  sighed  to  think  that  her  sister  enjoyed  such 
privileges.  Miss  Marshall  forbore  to  shatter  the  illusion 
regarding  the  comforts  of  her  New  York  home.  The 
picture  of  her  tiny  dark  room,  with  a  view  of  a  narrow 

156 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

airshaft,  and  cold  but  not  hot  water,  the  designer  having 
neglected  such  conveniences  when  planning  the  employes' 
quarters,  was  not  alluring.  One  froze  in  it  in  the  winter 
and  sweated  wretchedly  in  summer,  making  long  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  bath  at  the  other  end  of  a  corridor.  For  those 
fortunate  guests  who  were  able  to  afford  it  the  hotel  of- 
fered most  luxurious  rooms,  but  Miss  Marshall  took  her 
ten  a  week,  with  her  board  and  room,  and  was  glad  to 
get  it. 

She  asked  about  all  her  girlhood  friends.  Many  were 
matrons  now,  with  a  wee  brood  to  watch  over;  others 
were  dead.  Her  own  family  seemed  vastly  changed.  The 
"soft  Southern  voices"  she  had  longed  to  hear  sounded 
high  pitched  and  shrill,  and  they  chattered  incessantly, 
laughing  uproariously  at  home-made  jests  at  which  she 
forced  herself  to  smile,  knowing  it  was  expected.  Village 
humor,  to  a  young  woman  who  had  seen  all  the  current 
comedies  in  New  York,  seemed  flat.  In  the  hotel  were 
stagefolk  and  managers  who  often  had  a  couple  of  passes 
for  the  tired-looking  little  cashier,  the  one  who  wanted  to 
go  "back  home"  so  badly.  Miss  Marshall  had  yearned 
for  the  old  place,  set  among  the  towering  holly  trees,  from 
which  the  long  gray  southern  moss  hung  like  the  beards 
of  very  old  men.  Her  fellow  workers  had  known  all 
about  how  "Marshie"  was  skimping  and  saving  to  manage 
it.  They  all  agreed  that  she  ought  to  go,  too,  for  she 
was  "a  lady,"  as  the  manager  himself  had  emphatically 
informed  the  bookmaker's  clerk  who  had  tried  to  intro- 
duce himself  and  received  a  good  snubbing.  The  head 
cashier  laughingly  said  that  Marshie,  with  her  Southern 
drawl,  needed  the  background  of  a  vine  clad,  quiet  cot- 
tage, with  some  cats  about,  and  at  least  two  dozen  white 
muslin  dresses,  with  a  lot  of  ribbons,  which  she  should 
wear  always.  Her  pale  face  did  not  look  well  above  the 
stiff  collars  which  she  wore,  and  the  severe  white  shirt- 
waists. It  was  the  star  of  a  Broadway  show  who  took 
Marshie  under  her  pretty  wing  and  proceeded  to  edit  her 
wardrobe.  First  the  "front"  of  dun  colored  hair,  which 
dropped  in  a  dismal  line  about  her  face,  was  fluffed  be- 

157 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

comingly  and  fastened  carefully  at  a  more  rakish  angle, 
partly  covered  by  the  scanty  locks  which  were  Marshie's 
very  own.  The  result  was  more  than  the  star  had  hoped 
for,  and  with  the  very  faintest  touch  of  rouge,  which  the 
victim  at  first  positively  refused  to  permit,  capitulating 
when  she  had  noted  the  improved  effect,  Marshie  looked 
quite  smart.  The  star  had  a  dressmaker  who  charged 
frightfully,  but  oddly  enough  madame  made  up  a  plain 
but  well  fitting  blue  gown  of  a  warm  shade,  and  with  it  a 
modish  coat  at  the  most  absurd  price.  Marshie,  who 
knew  only  vaguely  about  such  matters,  having  purchased 
her  garments  during  her  few  leisure  hours  at  somebody's 
closing-out  sale,  had  no  suspicion  that  madame  would 
later  put  down  a  good  sum  to  the  star's  account.  Madame 
herself  disapproved,  asking  how,  when  Marshie  wanted 
more  clothes,  it  would  be  managed,  but  the  star  said  that 
first  of  all  her  protegee  must  get  "the  idea,"  after  which 
she  could  exercise  care  and  get  cheaper  things  elsewhere. 
And  this  Miss  Marshall  had  done,  investing  moderately 
in  pretty  things  as  she  went  along.  Five  of  her  ten  a 
week  went  home,  leaving  her  but  a  small  capital.  How- 
ever, the  head  clerk  had  a  "system,"  at  which  he  won 
much  money,  and,  as  in  most  Broadway  establishments, 
the  hotel's  staff  read  "the  dope"  daily  and  took  a  flyer, 
one  and  all,  when  some  guest  in  the  know  tipped  them  that 
a  particularly  good  one  was  going  through.  Miss  Mar- 
shall, presented  with  $30  one  day  by  the  grateful  drunkard 
whose  check  on  the  bank  where  he  had  no  funds  she  had 
held  at  her  own  risk  while  he  sobered  up  and  connected 
with  his  friends,  was  most  embarrassed  and  curtly  re- 
fused it.  But  he  explained  that  he  had  made  a  little  bet 
for  her,  being  flush,  and  the  money  represented  her  win- 
nings. The  head  clerk,  when  consulted,  bade  her  keep  it. 
After  that  the  sheet  writer  who  stayed  up  all  night  and 
consequently  met  her  coming  down  as  he  was  going  up, 
reminded  by  her,  he  said,  sheepishly,  of  his  sisters  down 
in  Tennessee,  gave  her  a. tip  now  and  then,  and  she  cau- 
tiously wagered  $2  each  time. 

Nearly  always  the  horse  won,  and  little  by  little  the 

158     . 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

hoard  for  the  trip  to  Mississippi  grew  larger.  The  news- 
paper editor,  interested  in  the  little  woman's  history,  got 
her  transportation  when  she  at  last  happily  announced 
that  she  could  go.  She  would  get  no  salary  during  her 
absence,  for  "the  boss"  believed  in  paying  only  for  what 
he  received,  but  the  forty  which  she  would  have  earned 
lay  with  a  hundred  more,  to  be  expended  just  in  having 
the  very  loveliest  time  one  could  fancy.  A  certain  quiet 
young  man,  who  regularly  called  for  Marshie  on  each 
Tuesday  night,  taking  her  to  dinner  and  a  show  and  re- 
turning her  promptly  at  11:15,  appeared  in  the  afternoon 
for  the  first  time. 

He  carried  the  suit  case,  the  jacket  and  the  box  of  fruit 
and  sandwiches  which  the  head  waiter  had  personally  su- 
perintended, under  orders  from  the  head  clerk,  and  Mar- 
shie, gowned  in  her  tailor-made  suit  and  polo  hat,  her  hair 
fluffed  out  and  her  cheeks  a  delicate  pink,  said  her  fare- 
wells and  trotted  out  to  the  car  with  her  young  man.  It 
had  been  a  good  trip,  with  home  at  the  end  of  it,  and  she 
had  given  herself  up  to  a  full  month  of  bliss. 

Then  why  wasn't  she  blissful  ?  she  demanded  angrily  of 
herself,  as  they  sat  on  the  wide  porch  later  with  Harry 
Marion,  her  first  beau,  playing  the  guitar  he  had  brought 
as  he  lounged  next  her  on  the  wide  settee.  He  had  not 
married,  he  said  with  a  laugh,  and  he  glanced  at  her  mean 
ingly.  Miss  Marshall  felt  no  coy  desire  to  blush  as  he, 
with  evident  intention,  suddenly  let  his  hand  lie  near  hers, 
still  strumming  idly  with  the  other. 

Instead,  it  occurred  to  her  that  his  hair  was  very  curly, 
and  she  hated  curly  haired  men.  And  his  collar  didn't 
fit.  She  had  an  intense  desire  to  grasp  it  firmly  and  pull 
it  around  some  way  to  show  him  the  way  the  thing  should 
be.  And  he  wore  an  odious  "made"  tie  of  a  light  spotted 
pattern  much  in  vogue  in  country  districts. 

It  was  clear  that  he  had  garbed  himself  for  the  occa- 
sion, for  his  light  trousers,  blue  coat  and  a  somewhat  pro- 
fuse display  of  jewelry  said  as  much.  He  was,  no  doubt, 
nice  and  clean  and  altogether  pleasing,  but  he  bored  Miss 

159 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

Marshall.  He  insisted  on  being  clever  and  making  epi- 
grams, and  they  were  not  original. 

All  these  years  she  had  thought  of  Harry  and  had  writ- 
ten him,  hoping  against  hope  that  he  wouldn't  quite  forget. 

He  was  assuring  her  now,  as  the  others  discussed  some 
excursion  shortly  to  be  made  for  her  entertainment,  that 
he  hadn't  forgotten,  not  once.  It  was  horrible.  Why  did 
they  all  crowd  away,  leaving  her  there  with  him?  She 
got  up  and  went  over  to  her  mother.  "Is  it  all  right ;  he's 
waited,  my  dear,"  the  latter  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  answered  the  returned 
wanderer  formally,  and  her  mother  sighed  heavily.  What 
di,d  the  girl  want?  She  wondered  to  herself.  Here  was 
the  finest  young  man  in  Marshalltown. 

Her  daughter  expressed  a  desire  to  go  to  bed  and  she 
gave  poor  Harry  a  chilly  hand  as  he  murmured,  "Adios, 
dear  Mary,  I  shall  see  you  early  to-morrow."  Early  to- 
morrow !  Good  gracious,  did  he  have  no  occupation  that 
he  could  gad  about  day  and  night?  She  had  purposed 
messing  about  in  the  kitchen  in  a  kimono  and  he  must 
needs  make  a  proper  toilette  necessary. 

She  kissed  them  all  round.  "Don't  you  feel  well  ?"  in- 
quired her  mother,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  indeed  I  do ;  splendid !"  she  answered,  ashamed  of 
the  strangeness  she  felt.  She  couldn't  sleep  up  in  the 
room  in  which  her  baby  cradle  had  been  rocked.  The 
same  bed,  the  funny  old  French  one  with  the  two  steps 
by  which  one  mounted  cautiously  to  sink  into  the  feathers. 
Feathers!  Miss  Marshall  had  lain  upon  a  hard  modern 
mattress,  pillowless,  because  the  Sunday  page  in  her  fa- 
vorite paper  advised  it,  too  long.  The  feathers  seemed  to 
choke  her,  even  though  they  were  covered  with  sheets 
scented  with  orris.  One  couldn't  breathe  well. 

The  moon's  rays  made  a  path  to  where  she  lay.  Not  a 
sound  broke  the  still  night  except  the  soft  swish  of  the 
curtains,  stirred  by  the  October  breeze.  It  was  madden- 
ing. Oh,  for  the  roar  of  the  elevated,  the  rattle  of  sur- 
face cars,  the  shouts  of  "Keb !  keb !"  the  newsboys  crying 
their  late  extras  and  all  the  riot  of  night  along  Broadway. 

160 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

She  tried  to  be  reasonable.  How  could  it  be  that  on  the 
first  night  at  home  she  was  lonesome  for  the  New  York 
which  she  had  sworn  she  hated.  But  nothing  was  the 
same.  Perhaps  morning  would  tell  a  different  tale. 


She  awoke  at  7 130,  in  obedience  to  the  habit  of  years  of 
early  rising.  The  house  was  silent.  Even  the  watchdog 
slept  peacefully  when  she  had  dressed  and  descended  ahe 
stairs  and  looked  out  upon  the  world.  She  grew  hungry 
and  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  but  here  again  was  only  si- 
lence. Then  she  remembered.  Breakfast  was  at  n,  as 
of  yore,  and  servants,  as  well  as  their  betters,  still  slept. 

She  had  changed ;  that  was  all.  Everything  else  re- 
mained the  same,  while  all  her  ways,  fixed  as  they  were 
now,  belonged  to  a  different  life.  The  clay  road  which 
led  to  the  depot  stretched  in  a  yellow  line  through  wide- 
branched  magnolias  and  tall,  straight  cottonwoods.  Stunt- 
ed half-tropic  palms  grew  underneath.  A  pig,  pursued 
by  another,  ran  squealing  from  the  side  of  the  house, 
frightening  the  solitary  spectator  by  its  sudden  appearance. 

A  couple  of  goats  bleated  noisily  over  by  the  "spring- 
house,"  in  which  the  big  pans  of  milk  and  the  crocks  of 
sweet  butter  cooled. 

It  was  just  as  she  had  pictured  it,  Miss  Marshall 
thought,  despairingly,  a  big,  comfortable,  care-free  life, 
and  yet  she  could  have  run  after  a  Broadway  car,  dodging 
motor  cars  and  vehicles,  obliged  to  stand  for  blocks  after 
she  was  aboard,  and  shouted  for  pure  joy  of  being  there. 

"Ma'y,"  said  a  voice.  Startled,  she  looked  around. 
There  was  her  swain  of  the  night  before  astride  of  a 
black  horse. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  remarked,  ungraciously,  at 
which  he  dismounted,  dropped  the  bridle  over  his  steed's 
head  and  came  up  the  steps,  announcing  that  he  had  come 
to  breakfast.  "Lazy !"  he  repeated  in  surprise,  as  she  in- 
quired if  this  was  his  usual  breakfast  hour;  "Ah'm  up  a 
half  houah  earliah  than  usual,  faih  lady,  because  of  yo'." 

"Well,  then,  I  think  you  lead  a  pretty  worthless  life !" 

161 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

exclaimed  Miss  Marshall,  emphatically.  "Why,  men  up 
North  are  in  their  offices  by  9  and  earlier,  and  you  simply 
sleep  away  the  day.  I  could  never  stand  it,  never !" 

"Why,  May  Dunwoodie  Marshall !"  His  tones  ex- 
pressed a  pained  astonishment.  "Ah'm  a  gentleman,  not 
a — a  common  person !''  He  had  paused,  lacking  a  word. 

"Well,  I'm  a  working  person !"  with  which  she  left  him 
abruptly ;  nor  did  she  halt  until  she  had  parted  the  dining 
room  curtains,  breathing  hard  from  anger  at  this  easy- 
going son  of  the  South  and  hoping  with  all  her  heart  he'd 
go  away.  But  when  the  household  was  stirring  and 
breakfast  was  ready  he  was  on  hand,  hurt,  but  intent  upon 
ascertaining  just  what  he  had  done  to  offend  this  energetic 
young  woman.  And  Miss  Marshall  could  not  have  told 
him  what  it  was  she  felt,  had  she  wished. 

.  *         *         * 

"Daughter,  come  out  heah!"  called  the  mother.  The 
family  were  gathered  in  the  sitting  room,  bright  with  the 
glow  of  two  big  lamps.  Miss  Marshall  sat  alone  in  the 
half  gloom  of  the  dining  room. 

"Please  let  me  stay  here  and  think,"  she  pleaded  when 
her  mother  had  come  in  person  to  fetch  her  out. 

"Ma'y,"  said  her  mother  firmly,  "yo'  all  come  out !  It's 
not  healthy  tuh  be  stayin'  by  yo'self  like  yo'  do.  Harry's 
here.  I  want  yo'  tuh  mind  me." 

"Very  well,  mama,"  she  returned,  "I'll  come." 
*         *         * 

The  moon  rode  high  in  the  dark  blue  skies  as  Miss  Mar- 
shall peeped  out  of  the  front  door.  It  was  3  of  a  starlit 
morning  and  she  had  business  of  supreme  importance  on 
the  highway.  The  watchdog  awoke  at  the  very  time  he 
should  have  slept,  as  usual,  growled,  but,  noting  the  friend- 
ly hand  she  put  out,  he  whined,  snuffed  at  her  once,  then, 
satisfied  with  his  deductions,  resumed  his  slumbers  under 
the  veranda. 

She  sped  swiftly  down  the  road,  jumping  nervously  at 
the  swaying  shadows  cast  by  the  hanging  moss  on  the 
holly  tree  branches  on  either  side.  It  was  half  a  mile  to 

162 


MARY  HAD  TO  HAVE  HER  BROADWAY. 

the  little  postoffice,  but  she  made  it  in  record  time,  popped 
a  letter  into  the  slit  and  flew  homeward,  her  heart  pump- 
ing painfully  from  fear  that  some  one  had  seen. 

But  Marshalltown  slept,  as  it  did  some  eighteen  hours 
of  the  twenty-four.  That  night  she  slept  soundly  and 
dreamlessly,  and  Vinie,  the  black  maid,  had  to  shake  her 

several  times  to  get  her  up  by  noon. 
*         *         * 

"A  telegram !"  there  was  consternation  in  her  younger 
sister's  childish  tones,  "for  you,  Ma'y!"  Miss  Marshall, 
feeling  like  a  robber,  or,  at  least,  a  most  shocking,  un- 
grateful individual,  took  it.  "I  must  go  back,"  she  heard 
herself  declare ;  "there's  an  unexpected  fall  rush  and  they 
need  me."  There  were  protests  from  all,  but  none  moved 
her.  Her  mother  wept  that  she  should  return  with  but 
ten  days  of  her  vacation  spent.  The  sisters  wished  frank- 
ly that  they  might  go. 

And  Miss  Marshall  went  back,  kissing  all  the  relatives 
and  smiling  pleasantly,  now  that  it  couldn't  matter,  at 
Harry  Marion,  who  held  aloof  and  looked  on  coldly  as  the 
rest  shouted  Godspeed  to  her.  The  quiet  young  man, 
warned  by  a  wire  from  Pittsburg,  was  at  Hoboken  to  meet 
her.  It  was  the  first  time  Miss  Marshall  had  ever  kissed 
him,  and  now  she  gave  a  shriek  of  happiness  and  flung 
herself  into  his  arms.  It  was  unexpected,  but  he  was 
game  and  he  kissed  her  back  with  all  the  fervor  that  even 
the  Southern  suitor  might  have  displayed. 

"So  you  couldn't  stand  it — eh,  Marshie?"  laughed  the 
head  clerk  when  she  came  in;  "did  I  make  the  telegram 
strong  enough  ?  I  did  my  best" 

"You're  an  angel,  Jack,"  said  Miss  Marshall. 

That  night  she  sat  at  the  window  that  fronted  on  the 
airshaft,  which  opened  on  Broadway,  sniffing  the  welcome 
fragrance  of  gasolene  autos,  the  noise  and  rattle  and  roar 
of  Broadway  on  a  Saturday  night,  drinking  it  thirstily. 

This  was  life,  and  she  was  satisfied. 


163 


Flatnose    Ed    Takes    His 
Medicine. 

IT  was  10  o'clock,  too  early  for  all  the  "push"  to  be 
found  in  Murphy's  place  in  Mott  street.  Many  cus- 
tomers had  Murphy,  and  a  few  of  them  had  any  desire 
to  be  about  when  an  inquisitive  "elbow"  from  Head- 
quarters came  poking  around,  asking  Murphy  for  this 
one  or  that  one. 

Once  in  a  while  a  few  sightseers  floated  in  to  have 
a  look  at  how  the  other  half  lives,  and  it  made  the 
crooks  laugh  to  think  of  how  the  marks  would  go 
home  thinking  they'd  found  out.  For  a  stranger  had 
only  to  show  his  face,  and  all  the  gang  sat  orderly  and 
quiet,  drinking  their  modest  beers,  until  he  left,  when 
things  grew  lively  again.  The  crook  shuns  publicity, 
and  wishes  no  spectators  when  taking  his  pleasures. 

The  piano  player,  in  a  loose  blue  shirt,  with  a 
soiled  handkerchief  around  his  neck,  and  baggy  trous- 
ers, sat  idle,  reading  the  dope  for  to-morrow's  races. 
He  hadn't  picked  a  winner  in  a  week,  he  complained 
to  "Fats,"  the  lazy  old  negro,  who  sold  cooked  crabs 
and  sandwiches  from  a  greasy  basket.  Murphy's 
guests  must  eat. 

Near  the  piano  sat  Flatnose  Ed,  who  was  just  out 
of  "college,"  aud  here  he  was,  drunk  as  a  fool,  telling 
all  who  came  near  him  how  last  night  he  and  his  pal, 
Shorty  Casey,  had  caught  a  guy  near  the  Bridge. 
They  had  trimmed  him  to  a  fare-you-well,  boasted 
Flatnose,  and  old  Einstein,  the  fence  had  given  up 
fifty  for  the  guy's  pin,  which  showed  how  good  it  was, 
for  any  one  knows  how  close  he  is  about  coin. 

164 


FLATNOSE  ED  TAKES  HIS  MEDICINE. 

"Aw,  shut  up,  an'  rest  y'r  gab,"  growled  Murphy, 
himself,  looking  in.  "Whyn't  yu'h  gwan  an'  sleep 
it  off?  I've  told  yuh  twict  them  bulls  is  round  lookin' 
fur  bot'  uv  youse,  an'  yet  yuh  stay  here  tellin'  all 
yuh  know." 

"Play  sumpin'  there,  Clarence!"  roared  Flatnose, 
ignoring  the  anxious  Murphy.  "Wot  yez  here  fur,  ^f 
not  tuh  amoose  a  gent?" 

"What'll  I  play,  pretty?"  inquired  the  pianist,  gayly, 
winking  at  Minnie  Dorrity,  the  "dip,"  who  was  hav- 
ing a  whisky  with  her  friend  Gold  Tooth  Bessie. 

Flatnose  inclined  toward  a  sentimental  ballad,  so 
the  pianist  gave  him  "Good-by,  Sweet  Marie,"  which 
he  played  with  such  feeling  that  Flatnose  sobbed  bit- 
terly, after  he  heard  the  words,  sung  rather  tunelessly 
by  the  two  ladies.  Flatnose  called  the  long-nosed 
waiter,  who  used  to  be  a  fightei,  and  bought  all  pres- 
ent including  "Fats,"  a  drink.  Murphy  came  in  again. 

"Come  on,  git  under  cover,  won't  yuh,  Flatnose?" 
he  urged.  "Hully  chee,  ef  I  wasn't  y'r  pal,  wud  I  be 
pluggin'  fur  yuh  tuh  quit  blowin'  coin  in  me  own 
joint?  They're  comin'  back,  I  tell  yuh,  an'  they'll 
mug  yuh,  sure.  Ain't  I  right,  Bessie?" 

"Better  screw  y'r  nut,"  said  the  latter.  "Gee,  yuh 
just  got  back.  Don't  yuh  wanta  see  nawtin',  'stead 
uv  takin'  a  chanct  fur  a  pinch  comin'  off?  It'll  be 
life,  this  time,  pal." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  makin'  a  hotfoot  fur  home,  then," 
said  Flatnose,  evidently  realizing  the  need  of  disap- 
pearing, "an'  ef  Casey  comes  in,  tell  him  I'h  home 
sleepin'." 

"Now  y'r  talkin'  sense,"  said  Murphy,  app  rovingly ; 
"y'r  too  good  a  fella  tuh  git  th'  woist  uv  it — take  the 
back  door,  troo  the  alley."  Flatnose  rose,  steadying 
himself  by  holding  an  edge  of  the  table  and  making 
his  adieus  in  some  haste,  he  lumbered  across  the  room 
and  vanished  through  the  rear  entrance. 

It  was  light  out  on  the  Bowery,  and  under  the 
elevated  structure  a  bareheaded  Italian  woman,  with 

165 


FLATNOSE  ED  TAKES  HIS  MEDICINE. 

a  flock  of  little  children,  was  making  an  uncertain  way 
across  the  car  tracks. 

A  Third  avenue  car  was  coming  up  through  Chat- 
ham Square,  while  another  rapidly  approached  from  up- 
town. Didn't  she  see  the  cars?  Flatnose  paused  and* 
drunk  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  if  the  Dago  woman 
didn't  get  out  of  the  way  in  a  hurry,  the  end  would 
be  quick.  He  tried  to  shout,  but  his  voice  could  not 
carry  in  the  noise  of  a  train  passing  above. 

Then  she  saw  the  two  cars  and,  petrified  by  fear, 
stood  still,  with  hands  uplifted  in  horror. 

And  from  behind  him  came  the  voice  of  the  hated 
"elbow,"  about  whom  Murphy  had  warned  him. 

"Flatnose,  don't  move,  or  I'll  shoot!" 

He  was  almost  up  to  Flatnose  when  he,  too,  saw 
the  scene  in  the  street,  and  being  a  brave  man  made 
up  his  mind  to  lose  a  captive  and  save  a  life.  And 
the  brain  of  Flatnose,  cleared  as  in  a  breath,  showing 
him  that  here  was  his  chance  to  escape  the  law. 

But  the  remnant  of  manhood,  deep  down  in  his 
thief's  soul,  bade  him  leap  to  the  aid  of  helpless 
creatures  in  distress,  and,  forgetting  self,  he  obeyed. 

"I'll  croak  like  a  sport,"  he  thought. 

Flatnose  hurled  the  woman  out  of  harm's  way,  land- 
ing her  in  a  tumbled  heap  in  the  mud  Grasping  the 
scanty  skirts  of  two  brown  and  screeching  mites,  he 
flung  them  after  the  mother;  then,  snatching  up  a 
third,  jumped  for  his  life,  and  landed,  but  not  before 
the  wheels,  in  spite  of  the  motorman's  frantic  efforts, 
had  crunched  sickeningly  over  his  right  foot. 

It  had  taken,  perhaps  20  seconds,  and  when  the 
detective,  who  had  dashed  out,  caught  and  borne  the 
remaining  two  children  safely  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Bowery,  got  through  the  crowd  to  the  side  of  Flat- 
nose,  the  latter  lay  limp,  the  leg  mangled,  an  easy 
capture. 


And  did  the  detective,  thrilled  by  Flatnose's  hero- 

166 


FLATNOSE  ED  TAKES  HIS  MEDICINE. 

ism,  shield  the  crook  and  let  him  go,  bidding  him  go 
forth  and  be  a  better  man?  No,  for  they  only  do 
those  things  in  books.  You  see,  Flatnose  and  his  pal 
had  killed  the  mark  near  the  Bridge,  and  it  was  mur- 
der he  was  wanted  for.  So,  after  he  came  out  of  the 
hospital,  he  limped  into  court  on  a  crutch,  and,  with 
Casey,  also  a  prisoner,  took  his  life  sentence,  and  a 
few  kind  words  from  the  judge. 

Nor  did  the  Dago  woman  work  for  his  pardon.  She 
didn't  even  know  who  had  saved  her  prattling  brood. 

So  that  was  the  finish  of  Flatnose. 


The    Comedian's   Wives. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— I  see  where  a  dame  was 
brung  before  the  judge  fur  refusin'  to  answer  ques- 
tions. Them  courts  is  bad  things  to  monkey  with. 

THE  INGENUE— Well,  I  dunno  why  a  gell  must 
git  out  in  front  of  a  hull  gang  of  rude  men  an'  tell 
her  past.  I  wudn't. 

FLORA  FLITTER  (playing  the  part  of  Lady 
Slasher  in  "Harum-Scarum,"  the  musical  comedy) — 
Why,  I  was  up  in  supplementary  proceedin's  onct. 
I  just  give  'em  the  laff,  an'  didn't  the  other  party's 
lawyer  take  me  to  dinner,  an'  he's  a  good  frena  mine 
tuh  this  day. 

GERTIE  VODDYVIL  (of  Voddyvil  &  Haines, 
refined  comedy  duo) — I'd  certainly  like  to  know  what  the 
fella  settled  for.  Some  says  ten  thousand  an'  some 
eighty. 

THE  SOUBRETTE  (thoughtfully)— I  wouldn't  a 
give  up  them  letters  fur  less'n  eighty.  But  I  guess 
he  fell  hard  all  right. 

THE  LANDLADY— Them  men  writes  us  gells 
letters,  an'  then  tries  tuh  renig,  an'  I'm  just  tickled 
tuh  death  when  they  git  it,  an'  git  it  good. 

THE  MAGICIAN— A  feller's  a  mark  to  write  'em. 
I  never  write  nothin'.  Ef  I  got  anything  to  say  I 
tell  the  party.  That's  me. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— If  a  guy's  careful  he  kin 
git  along  all  right  any  place. 

THE  SOUBRETTE— A  woming's  got  little  enough 
protection  from  a  deceiving  wretch.  A  little  fren' 
of  mine  was  sued  by  a  party,  an'  I  wisht  you'd  seen 
the  way  Effie  framed  up  to  go  to  court.  She  borried 

168 


THE  COMEDIAN'S  WIVES. 

a  old  dress  from  the  wardrobe  woman  in  her  show, 
an'  put  her  joolry  in  her  stockin',  an'  made  up  pale. 
She  made  the  fella  look  like  a  deuce. 

THE  JUVENILE  LEADS  (a  pretty  boy  with  wavy 
hair) — Did  he  have  to  pay  anything? 

THE  LANDLADY— Well,  I  should  hope  not,  after 
bein'  humiliated  by  havin'  tuh  go  there!  A  party 
what  was  a  gent'd  never  ast  a  lady  tuh  go  in  one  of 
them  old  courts.  I'd  a  been  free  from  that  De  Shine 
a  long  time  ago  if  it  wasn't  fur  the  notoriety,  an'  me 
so  gosh  darned  sensitive ! 

THE  INGENUE— It  ain't  no  place  fur  a  delikit 
woman.  Listen.  I  want  to  ast  you  sumpin',  Mr. 
Johnson.  I  bought  a  bunch  of  longeray  from  this 
fat  fella  who  comes  around  twict  a  week  sellin'  'em  on 
time  payments.  Kin  he  make  me  settle  if  I  didn't 
sign  nothin'? 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (a  very  wise  man)— Did 
you  pay  him  anything  yet? 

THE  INGENUE— Me'n  Birdie  each  give  him  a 
two  spot,  but,  honest  tuh  Gawd,  they're  perf'ly  bum, 
an'  here  they'se  thirty  more  tuh  pay,  an'  we  ain't 
worked  fur  two  weeks,  an'  Birdie  with  her  mawr  tuh 
look  out  fur!  Kin  he  pinch  us? 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Soitenly  not!  Laff  in 
his  map ! 

THE'  INGENUE— Kin'ly  pass  the  tuhmatta  catch- 
up' an'  the  bread.  I  wisht  she'd  have  hot  bread.  Is 
thev  any  pie,  Mis'  De  Shine? 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy,  git  her  a  pieca  pie. 
Well,  I  see  Collins  &  Bluph  is  back  from  Yurup,  an' 
sportin'  around,  headin'  the  bill  at  Moctor's  Twenty- 
third  Street,  an'  here  them  guys  owes  me  fur  threo 
week's  board.  It's  the  best  yuh  git  when  yer  a  good 
fella  with  them  Barnabys. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— You  bet  your  life  that 
ain't  no  lie,  Maggie.  A  team  come  in  to  rehearsal 
Monday  mornin'  with  a  prop  list  a  houn'  dog  couldn't 
jump  over  an'  I  went  an'  rustled  'em  some  swell  gags 

169 


THE  COMEDIAN'S  WIVES. 

fur  their  act  an'  digs  up  a  prop  lion  an'  put  a  new 
laig  on  him,  an'  they  lam  out  Satiddy  night  an'  never 
give  up  nothin'. 

JOE  WOOD  (of  Wood  &  Fay)— I  can't  do  them 
kind  of  things.  We  got  to  have  three  stage  hands 
help  in  our  act,  an'  it's  five  bucks  apiece,  an'  ten  to 
the  property  man  every  week.  But  it  saves  salary 
in  carryin'  people. 

THE  BURLESQUE  COMEDIAN  (sotto  voce)— 
The  big  mutt !  He  never  give  nobuddy  a  kind  word 
even!  I  know  him.  I  put  him  in  the  business  an' 
learned  him  all  he  knows,  an'  what  does  he  do? 
Steals  my  wife,  an'  my  dancin'  finish. 

HIS  WIFE  (in  the  chorus)— That'll  be  all!  If 
you're  worryin'  about  him  gettin'  her,  whyn't  you 
come  out  an'  say  so?  Whyn't  you  say  I  ain't  your 
lawful  wife  now,  or  sumpin'  like  that?  Ef  that  wom- 
ing  comes  in,  I  won't  set  at  this  table !  D'you  hear 
me? 

THE  BURLESQUE  COMEDIAN— Aw,  have  a 
little  sense !  A  guy  can't  open  his  mouth  without 
you  flyin'  away  up  in  G ! 

THE  LANDLADY  (welcoming  a  new  guest)— 
Set  right  down,  Daisy.  Yer  suttenly  lookin'  grand! 
I  s'pose  Joe  give  yuh  them  stones?  They're  elegant. 

DAISY  FAY  (of  Wood  &  Fay)— Who,  him?  I 
get  my  own.  He  never  done  nothin'  fur  nobody. 
Why— hello,  Bill! 

THE  BURLESQUE  COMEDIAN  (conscious  of 
the  glare  of  his  second  wife — I — I'm  well,  thanky', 
Daisy.  I  see  yer  makin'  good  with  the  "Gay  Four 
O'Clocks."  Where  do  you  go  from  here? 

HIS  WIFE  (furiously)— How  dare  you  talk  to 
her  ef  she  was  onct  your  wife !  Big  blond  cow ! 

DAISY  FAY  (arising,  with  a  plate,  ready  for  ac- 
tion)— Cow,  am  I?  I'll  fix  you!  He  never  looked 
at  you  till  I  trun  him  down ! 

THE  LANDLADY— Here,  quit!  Put  down  that 
plate!  Ef  yuh  ladies  gotta  fight,  g'wan  out  on  the 

170 


THE  COMEDIAN'S  WIVES. 

street!  The  idee  of  a  rough  house  comin'  off  tuh 
the  table! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Bet  you  dollar  the  little 
un  wins ! 

THE  MAGICIAN— Took! 

THE  COMEDIANS  WIFE  (makes  a  dive  for  the 
yellow  pompadour  of  the  enemy) — 'Coin'  to  try  an' 
gettim  again,  are  you?  Ouch!  Lemme  at  her! 

DAISY  FAY  (landing  with  the  plate)— Help! 
Police!  Assistance!  I'm  goin'  to  be  kilt! 

THE  SOUBRETTE — I  never  see  such  a  disgrace- 
ful goin'  on.  Here,  now,  git  away  from  me,  or  I'll 
land  on  yuh ! 

DAISY  FAY  (goes  to  the  floor  after  a  spirited 
onslaught  by  the  comedian's  wife — I'm  dyin' !  Help ! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Quick!  Throw  water 
on  her!  (He  snatches  the  water  pitcher.) 

DAISY  FAY  (suddenly  arising) — Yes,  you'd  ruing 
my  dress,  wouldn't  you?  I'll  leave  this  place  this 
rninnit ! 

THE  LANDLADY— Oh,  my  nerves  is  just  jump- 
in'  !  Lawsy ! 


The    Boston  Kid's   Last  Trip. 

IT  was  the  "Boston  Kid's"  second  winter  in  Mackenzie 
Land,  and  when  the  wind  blew  chill  through  the  spruces 
and  firs,  with  the  first  feel  of  snow  in  the  air,  he  knew 
that  the  brief  Alaskan  summer  was  ending  and  that  win- 
ter and  hard  times  were  ahead.  The  Kid  was  big  and 
strong  and  used  to  roughing  it,  and  when  he  had  pulled 
the  old  sweater,  worn  in  bygone  days  on  a  Harvard  foot- 
ball field,  closer  about  his  neck,  he  shook  himself  like  a 
healthy  young  animal  and  laughed  as  he  watched  the  gray 
clouds  massing  above.  Mackenzie  Land  in  winter  meant 
dull  clays  and  cold  ones,  but  there  were  thousands  in  dust 
laid  away  in  sacks  in  a  cache  which  the  Kid  knew  of, 
which  spelled  a  different  life  when  he  hit  "the  States" 
again. 

The  Peel  River  had  a  coating  of  ice  to-day,  and  yester- 
day its  waters  had  felt  fairly  warm  to  the  touch  as  he 
washed  out  many  panfuls  of  dirt  from  the  claim  which 
stretched  along  the  bank.  It  made  him  feel  pleasant  to 
think  that  the  cabin  back  among  the  spruce  trees  was 
nearly  done,  and  that  the  pile  of  logs  splint  into  the  proper 
short  lengths  for  the  sheet  iron  stove  had  grown  daily, 
even  though  his  partner  was  down  near  Pete  Ladue's 
camp  (where  Dawson  City  now  stands)  loading  supplies 
for  the  long  months  ahead.  The  partner  was  half  a  Cree, 
a  wanderer  from  Alberta,  who,  meeting  the  Kid  after  the 
latter  had  lost  a  scanty  outfit  in  a  portage  up  the  merciless 
Yukon,  where  it  swept  through  Mills  Canyon,  above  Lake 
Marsh,  had  staked  the  Kid  to  a  share  of  his  own  belong- 
ings, and  they  had  gone  on  together,  past  Sixty  Mile  and 
Fort  Cudahy,  disregarding  advice,  up  into  the  barren 
wilderness  in  the  search  for  gold. 

172 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

And  they  had  found  it.  Below,  in  Klondike,  men 
fought  like  dogs,  lied  and  toiled  to  win  out  a  fortune  in 
districts  where  mining  law  forbade  more  than  one  claim 
to  one  man,  but  here,  a  hundred  miles  of  trail  from  a 
camp,  there  was  peace,  without  strife. 

The  Kid  was  lonely  without  Bill,  but,  being  young  in 
hill  life,  he  told  himself  it  was  just  the  idea  of  winter 
coming  on,  where  an  older  miner  would  have  known  at 
once  it  was  but  the  longing  for  human  society  he  felt. 
Somehow  he  couldn't  work  to-day,  and  finally  he  gave 
up  laboring  at  the  placer  and  spent  his  energy  at  hauling 
logs  with  a  rope  and  splitting  them  into  sections.  The 
cabin  was  as  snug  as,  for  instance,  the  big  English  en- 
trance hall  at  his  father's  place  at  home,  in  South  Caro- 
lina. He  told  himself  mockingly  that  probably  the  Gov- 
ernor wouldn't  want  to  change.  A  woodrat,  bushy  tailed 
and  pale  pink  bellied,  came  and  peered  at  him  as  he  laid 
the  axe  down  to  muse  for  a  few  minutes. 

The  Kid  whistled  and  the  rat  scampered  away,  but  he 
returned  and  played  about  in  the  stumpy  juniper  brush 
quite  fearlessly,  gazing  at  the  man  in  friendly  fashion. 
The  Kid  stopped  chopping  again  to  rest  his  arms,  and 
addressed  the  lively  rat.  "Hello,  rat,"  he  remarked,  "are 
you  lonesome,  too?  Don't  you  wish  Bill  and  the  dogs 
would  get  back  ?  I  do,  blamed  if  I  don't.  Here !  Stay 
still,  I  ain't  going  to  hurt  you,  you  fool ! !  I  sort  of  like 
to  have  you  round,  you  little  rascal." 

The  woodrat  seemed  to  know  this,  and  as  the  Kid 
cooked  his  supper  of  bacon  and  "bannocks,"  baked  in  a 
frying  pan  suoported  by  a  stick  against  the  fire,  the  little 
creature  darted  about,  catching  the  bits  of  bacon  rind  his 
friend  threw  toward  him.  He  came  in  the  little  "A"  tent 
where  the  Kid  slept  rolled  in  blankets  and  tarpaulin,  and' 
when  its  occupant  awakened  in  the  freezing  dawn  he  scut 
tied  out  again,  squeaking. 

The  Kid  figured  out  the  days.     It  had  been  three  weeks 
just  about,  and  Bill  was  to  be  back  in  that  time.     Perhaps 
it  would  be  to-day ;  he  hoped  so,  for  snow  was  falling  and 
the  trail  would  be  tough  if  a  storm  came  up.     Soft  snow 

173 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

made  hard  traveling,  with  a  dog  team  to  handle  and  no 
one  ahead  to  break  trail.  He  began  to  grow  nervous  as 
the  snow  left  a  thin  covering  over  everything.  It  had 
melted  as  it  fell  yesterday,  but  now  it  laid  on  the  ground. 
He  took  a  look  at  the  cabin  and  proudly  surveyed  the  door 
which  he  had  made,  built  of  logs  split  to  planklike  thick- 
ness and  nailed  together  with  as  few  spikes  as  possible. 
Nails  were  precious  in  those  early  days  in  the  new  gold 
fields.  He  fancied  Bill  would  think  he  hadn't  wasted  any 
time. 

Suddenly  a  shot  sounded,  and  his  heart  gave  a  great 
leap.  Bill,  God  bless  his  old  Injun  hide,  was  coming! 
He  rushed  down  the  trail,  shouting  wildly,  quite  ignoring 
the  woodrat,  which  peered  out  coquettishly  at  him  from 
under  a  log. 

Yes,  it  was  Bill,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  he'd  never 
stay  alone  again,  because  it  got  on  a  fellow's  nerves. 
"Why,  you  old  son  of  a  gun,"  he  said,  affectionately,  as 
the  partners  met,  for  the  Cree  had  dropped  the  reins  on 
the  dog  team  and  run  forward,  "I — I'm  glad,  pal.  I'm 
glad."  He  was  actually  crying,  like  a  big  baby,  and  yet 
Bill  didn't  seem  to  notice  it.  "Hello,  Kid,"  the  other  said, 
and  shook  the  younger  man's  hand  until  it  hurt.  "I'm 
glad,  too.  It's  been  a  hell  of  a  lonesome  deal  alone,  ain't 
it?  But  see  my  bunch  of  dogs.  Ain't  they  all  right? 
And  do  you  know  they've  packed  a  thousand  pounds  of 
grub  in?"  "Why,  how?  The  snow  ain't  begun  yet," 
and  the  Kid  looked  wonderingly  at  the  eight  dogs,  their 
pink  tongues  hanging  out  as  they  sat,  panting  from  the 
strain  of  pulling  sledge  runners  over  a  half  inch  of  snow. 

The  Cree  laughed.  "It's  three  feet,  packed  hard,  down 
below,"  he  replied.  "We're  in  a  valley  here.  Have  you 
smoked  any  fish  for  the  dogs,  like  I  told  you  ?" 

"Got  a  big  lot  cached,"  said  the  Kid.  "Say,  this  one's 
a  peach,  ain't  he?  What's  his  name?"  He  indicated  a 
big  "husky"  dog  with  bushy  tail  and  thick  gray  coat. 
'That's  Mogi,  and  I  got  him  from  a  chap  who  was  hitting 
the  trail  for  Dyea,"  said  his  partner,  unhitching  the  dogs. 
''He  is  a  good  one.  He's  lead  dog  and  quick  as  chain 

i74 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

lightning,  Kid.  He'll  help  pack  us  out  later  on,  when  we 
move  to  Circle  City.  I've  got  a  letter,  by  the  way,  for 
you.  Been  at  Ladue's  camp  for  three  months.  Guess 
it's  from  home." 

He  handed  over  the  missive,  in  a  woman's  unmistak- 
able hand,  and  the  Kid,  his  face  working  strangely,  tore  it 
open  and  read.  "Fine!"  he  commented,  with  a  bitter 
laugh;  "I've  never  been  very  gassy,  have  I,  Bill?  Well, 
this  is  from  a  girl — the  girl,  old  pal — and  she  says  I'm  a 
dead  one,  too  lazy  to  be  a  man,  and  that  she's  through 
with  me.  I  was  going  back,  you  know,  like  all  the  fools. 
I  thought  she'd  stick  to  me,  but  I  guess  she's  right.  I 
wasn't  much  when  she  saw  me  last.  Well,  let  it  go  at 
that." 

The  Cree,  a  gentleman  in  instinct,  like  all  his  kind, 
turned  away  his  head,  but  he  heard  and  sympathized,  and 
when  it  seemed  safe  he  reached  out  a  hand  and  held  the 
Kid's  fast  in  a  warm  grasp  of  friendship.  "You've  got 
me,"  he  said,  simply.  "Let  her  go.  A  gal  who  won't 
stick  ain't  worth  hustlin'  fur.  You're  white  and  I'm  red, 
but  my  pile  goes  two  ways,  one  for  you.  It's  better'n 
nothin',  ain't  it?" 

"You  bet  it  is !"  returned  the  Kid,  fervently.  "Thank 
you,  Bill.  Now  come  see  the  cabin.  She's  about  done." 

That  night  winter  came  in  earnest,  weighting  the 
spruce  branches  with  snow,  and  banking  it  in  small  drifts 
as  the  freezing  wind  sent  it  back  and  forth.  The  Peel 
froze  hard  in  a  few  hours,  making  it  necessary  to  melt 
snow  for  drinking  water  and  ending  work  on  the  claim 
until  the  next  summer,  for  the  gravel  banks  of  the  river 
were  solid  with  frost  under  the  white  blanket.  "We  can 
move  down  to  a  camp  on  the  Stewart  or  Fort  Cudahy, 
easy,  if  you  feel  like  bein'  with  folks,"  began  Bill  one  day, 
noticing  that  the  Kid  seemed  to  grow  morose  as  the  days 
wore  on.  "What  say?  I'm  Injun,  and  used  to  bein' 
alone,  but  you  ain't." 

"I'll  stay  here,  where  the  claim  is,"  said  the  Kid.  "It's 
just  the  snow  gets  me  once  in  a  while.  I'm  satisfied. 

175 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

We've  got  by  the  scales  about  $70,000  in  dust  now.  We'll 
stay  here  and  take  out  that  much  more." 

"Good  for  you,"  was  the  answer.  "You  got  grit. 
You're  a  lot  changed,  too,  in  a  year.  That  girl's  wrong,  I 
think." 

As  it  grew  colder  and  the  dogs  burrowed  deep  in  the 
snow  outside,  coming  in  under  the  tent  used  as  a  shelter 
for  the  wood  and  certain  supplies,  when  feeding  time  came 
around,  the  Kid  and  Bill  became  even  closer  to  each  other. 
The  Indian,  a  great  specimen  of  the  warlike  race  of  Crees, 
born  in  the  chill  Northland,  was  kind,  generous  and  just 
in  dealing  with  the  few  whom  he  fancied,  showing  a  warm 
heart,  which  he  concealed  by  assuming  a  fierce  coldness 
toward  those  whom  he  disliked,  was  the  older,  and  the  Kid 
to  him  was  his  to  watch  over  and  advise.  Tall  and  strong, 
big  boned  and  fearless  was  Bill,  knowing  the  pitiless 
North  as  others  know  the  mild  greenness  of  a  warmer 
clime,  and  he  took  life  as  it  came  to  him,  without  com- 
plaint, doing  the  work  which  Fate  laid  out  to  the  best  of 
his  ability.  But  he  wished  at  times  that  "the  girl"  could 
see  this  chap  she  wouldn't  wait  for,  see  him  braving  cold 
and  hunger,  hardship  and  privation,  and  taking  it  without 
a  kick.  It  wasn't  every  tenderfoot  who  butted  into  a 
mining  country  and  made  good. 

And  the  Kid  had  swung  a  pick  and  climbed  bleak  sum- 
mits with  the  treacherous  slide  rock  smashing  down  on  him 
as  just  the  mere  touch  of  his  body  loosened  it,  bucked  ice 
trails  and  snowdrifts,  and  never  once  had  he  laid  down. 
It  was  a  good  record,  and  Bill  felt  it  was  a  pity  that  the 
girl  couldn't  know  of  it. 

That  was  a  pretty  rocky  letter  to  write  a  fellow.  It 
had  been  sent  almost  a  year  before  to  Skagway,  and 
brought  thence  by  odd  persons  over  the  Yukon  trail.  He 
liked  to  think  of  the  speech  he  would  make  to  this  woman, 
could  he  see  her.  He'd  ask  her  how  many  of  the  weak 
kneed  chaps  she  knew  back  there  in  that  little  town,  where 
her  folks  and  the  Kid's  lived,  could  stand  the  gaff  up  here  ? 
He  told  this  to  his  partner  the  night  they  had  Mogi,  the 
lead  dog,  who  had  waxed  fat  on  dried  salmon  (for  food 

176 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

was  plenty  for  man  and  beast  in  the  camp,  owing  to  Bill's 
wise  forethought)  into  the  cabin  to  fix  up  his  lame  leg. 

But  the  Kid  said  that  it  wasn't  her  fault.  He'd  been  a 
drunk  and  a  fool,  thrown  out  of  college  after  a  rotten 
failure  to  pass,  and  he  and  the  Gove'nor  couldn't  hit  it 
off,  and  there  it  was.  He  cadged  some  money  from  his 
mother  and  started  for  Seattle.  Lost  it  all  playing  bank 
there,  and  shipped  before  the  mast  on  a  sailing  vessel  to 
Juneau,  and  a  man  had  staked  him  to  the  outfit  which  had 
gone  into  the  rapids.  Only  he'd  hoped  to  go  back  again, 
with  something  made  by  his  own  hard  work,  and  then, 
perhaps,  she'd  care  to  listen. 

He  bent  lower  over  Mogi's  bad  foot,  and  his  voice 
shook  a  little,  but  when  he  looked  up  there  was  the  old 
smile  which  Bill  liked  to  see.  But  the  Kid  had  begun  to 
look  older,  somehow. 

He  was  22  now,  and  a  man,  with  his  careless  boy  days 
all  behind.  Life  meant  something  with  a  grown-up  part 
to  play.  Bill  and  he  planned  to  do  a  lot  of  things  when 
the  next  summer  was  over.  About  April  they  would  take 
a  trip  down  to  Circle  City,  to  renew  supplies,  as  a  dog 
train  packed  in  grub  from  the  outside  for  the  miners  in 
the  hills,  and  that  meant  seeing  human  beings  again.  This 
was  one  reason  for  keeping  the  dogs  to  drag  their  sledge 
across  the  snow,  but  it  was  cheerful  having  'em  around 
anyway,  and  the  log  cache  of  fish  and  smoked  moose, 
added  to  all  summer,  held  plenty  for  them  all. 

One  day  Bill  got  a  hunch  to  set  a  trap  just  to  see  if  he 
could  catch  anything.  Caribou  drifted  past  once  in  a 
great  while,  light  colored  and  thin  with  searching  for  moss 
in  the  drear  forests,  and  sometimes  a  marten  or  fox,  but 
fresh  meat  had  been  in  camp  but  once.  Bill  said  he  want- 
ed some  meat  instead  of  eternal  bacon,  so  he  arranged  a 
couple  of  traps,  brought  in  with  the  winter's  grub,  and 
daily  visited  them,  finding  it  a  relief  to  be  doing  some- 
thing. The  Kid  went  along  at  times,  skidding  across  the 
crust  on  his  snowshoes  and  taking  short  breaths  in  the 
freezing  air  which  seemed  to  penetrate  one's  very  marrow. 

One  afternoon  Bill  had  just  started  off,  taking  all  the 
177 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

dogs  along  to  give  them  exercise,  and  the  Kid  decided  to 
go  into  the  tent  next  the  cabin,  to  fill  the  space  under  their 
log  bunk  with  wood  for  the  stove,  built  by  Bill's  clever 
hands.  It  looked  like  more  snow,  so  he  hurried  and  got 
in  a  lot.  Then  he  took  up  the  axe  preparatory  to  shaving 
off  some  kindling  in  case  the  fire  went  out. 

There  seemed  to  be  something  in  one  moccasin,  and, 
still  making  kindling,  he  wiggled  his  toe  and  glanced  at 
the  foot.  The  axe,  just  sharpened,  slipped,  and  down  it 
came  on  the  Kid's  right  hand,  and  when  he  raised  it  the 
thumb,  sliced  off  cleanly,  lay  in  a  sickening  pool  of  rapidly 
freezing  blood  on  the  floor.  He  never  knew  how  he 
reached  the  cabin,  shut  the  door  and  fell  on  the  bunk,  un- 
conscious from  loss  of  blood  and  pain. 

Tt  was  Mogi,  galloping  ahead,  then  howling  with  his 
long,  mournful  wolf  howl,  and  running  back  again,  that 
warned  Bill  something  was  wrong.  He  saw  the  red 
stains  on  the  split  log  flooring,  the  bloody  axe  and  the 
Kid  lying  limp  and  helpless,  and  a  dreadful  fear  hit  into 
his  soul  that  his  partner  was  dead.  Then  he  saw  the 
hand  and  understood. 

In  quick  time  he  had  the  member  dressed  as  well  as  his 
small  knowledge  could  suggest,  then,  rubbing  snow  into 
the  Kid's  face,  he  called  to  him  frantically  to  speak.  Dimly 
the  latter  heard  and  opened  his  eyes  as  Bill  bent  over  him 
anxiously. 

"Kid,  wake  up !"  he  implored,  "we  got  to  git  you  well, 
boy !"  And  the  Kid  came  to  himself  and  agreed  that  he 
certainly  must  buck  up  and  get  that  good  right  ready  for 
use  against  spring. 

But  the  hand  refused  to  heal,  in  spite  of  the  constant 
washing  with  a  solution .  of  carbolic  from  the  carefully 
hoarded  store  which  Bill  had  treasured.  The  arm  began 
to  swell  and  sharp  pains  shot  up  and  down  from  the  shoul- 
der. It  was  slowly  turning  a  terrible  dark  color,  and  Bill 
dared  not  admit,  even  to  himself,  that  it  meant  gangrene. 
With  all  his  pagan  soul  he  prayed  to  the  gods  of  his  fath- 
ers pasionately  to  save  the  Kid,  his  Kid. 

He  went  outside  one  night  as  the  Kid  lay  tossing  fever- 

I78 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

ishly  in  the  bunk,  forgetting  his  fur  parka,  unmindful  of 
the  cold,  and  gazed  up  at  the  aurora  borealis  of  the  arctic 
region  flaming  whitely  in  the  heavens  and  searched  the 
cold  brightness  for  a  sign  of  hope.  He  went  inside,  his 
mind  resolved.  Over  the  snow  to  the  coast,  to  doctors 
and  healing  medicines,  they  would  go  to  save  the  Kid. 
And  go  this  very  night ! 

He  worked  wildly,  but  with  method,  packing  grub  com- 
pactly for  the  5oo-mile  journey,  and  bringing  forth  the 
caribou  hide  sacks  filled  with  dust.  They  must  go,  too, 
for  gold  opens  all  doors  and  the  Kid  must  live  at  all  cost. 
The  dogs  were  fat  and  fit  from  months  of  idleness ;  now 
they  should  work  for  their  keep.  He  took  the  can  filled 
with  stinking  caribou  fat,  in  which  was  set  a  rude  wick 
which  they  used  in  the  tent,  saving  candles  for  the  cabin, 
and  put  it  where  he  could  catch  all  the  faint  light  to  see  to 
his  packing.  All  night  he  worked,  going  to  the  Kid  at 
intervals  with  water  and  answering  his  half-delirious 
queries.  The  sick  man  was  prattling  of  the  girl  and  of 
doings  on  a  Harvard  football  field,  and  of  the  "gove'nor." 
It  made  Bill's  heart  ache  as  he  listened. 

Death  in  the  wilds  was  his  own  natural  end,  but  his 
companion  was  a  product  of  civilization  and  should  be 
back  among  his  own  people.  Bill  knew  how  the  mother 
must  be  yearning  and  that  the  father  would  surely  want 
his  son  again.  The  Kid  wasn't  bad,  and  now,  with  his 
thoughtless  youth  done  with,  his  partner  wanted  them  to 
know  that  the  North  could  make  a  man.  The  Kid  had 
saved  a  couple  of  lives  along  the  trail  coming  in,  and  that 
squared  a  lot  of  things. 

It  was  night  still  when  Bill  aroused  the  Kid  and  made 
him  understand  matters.  They  must  travel  light,  because 
he  would  ride  on  the  sled,  but  the  dogs  could  make  it. 
Just  enough  grub  to  manage,  and  leave  the  rest  behind. 
The  storms  were  becoming  less  frequent,  as  it  neared 
March,  and  Bill  assured  the  Kid  they'd  make  Dyea,  if  they 
had  to  go  that  far.  But  he  hoped  to  catch  the  doctor  who 
was  working  a  claim  down  on  the  MacMillan,  in  which 
case  it  would  be  easy. 

179 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

But  the  Kid,  excited,  declared  he  could  hit  the  trail  on 
his  Cree  snowshoes  and  win  out,  too.  He  stood  up  beside 
the  bunk  to  prove  his  strength  and  looked  at  Bill  wijth 
fever  bright  eyes,  his  cheeks  burning.  "I'm  ready  when 
we've  fed,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  know  I'm  sick,  but  I'm 
game.  Where's  the  dogs,  where's  Mogi?  All  ready? 
And  you  wouldn't  let  me  help?  I'll  break  trail  ahead 
and  you  drive !" 

Bill  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  One  arm  was  useless, 
but  the  lad  seemed  strong.  The  lighter  the  sledge  the 
quicker  the  time,  and  if  the  Kid  could  walk  part  of  the 
way  he  could  ride  the  rest,  when  the  effort  became  too 
much.  He  walked  steadily  over  to  where  the  stove  roared 
cheerfully  and  held  out  his  good  hand.  Then,  growing 
suddenly  weak,  he  put  out  the  hand  blindly  and  spread  it 
palm  dawnward,  on  the  smoking  stove  as  he  fell. 

Bill's  agony  was  almost  as  great  as  the  Kid's  as  the  suf- 
ferer jerked  his  hand  away,  leaving  burned  shreds  on  the 
stove,  but  neither  man  spoke.  The  flour  sack,  open  at  the 
top,  stood  next  the  stove,  and  the  Kid  plunged  his  arm 
down  into  it,  then  sank  fainting  to  the  floor,  while  Bill, 
rendered  desperate  by  this  new  horror,  ground  his  teeth 
together  until  they  cracked. 

"God !"  he  cried  out  at  last  "What's  he  done  ?  Don't 
pile  it  on,  don't;  gimme  some,  don't  soak  it  all  on  one 
poor  son  of  a  gun." 

But  later  that  day,  with  the  Kid's  two  arms  bound  and 
useless,  which  helplessness  drove  him  to  fury,  they  left, 
the  dogs  eager  to  be  off,  with  the  sick  man  packing  the 
soft  snow  ahead,  his  knees  aching  from  this  strange  new 
strain,  his  eyes  and  nostrils  smarting  from  the  frost,  and 
his  mind  a  blank,  except  that  Bill  had  said  "mush,"  and 
mush  on  he  would,  because  Bill  knew.  Behind,  Bill 
lashed  the  dog  team  with  his  whip,  curling  it  nastily  over 
the  head  of  an  unruly  beast,  and  roaring  out  hoarse  com- 
mands as  they  ploughed  toward  the  Klondike  region 
through  the  solemn  white  forests,  where  all  was  silent. 
The  Kid  said  nothing,  but  Bill,  contrary  to  his  Indian 

180 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

nature,  cursed  in  Cree  until  he  lost  his  breath  at  anything 
and  everything  except  the  Kid. 

They  stopped  to  rest,  and  Bill  cooked  tea  on  a  fir  bough 
fire,  and  warmed  part  of  the  "sour  dough"  bread  he  had 
made  up  the  night  before,  making  sandwiches  with  thick, 
satisfying,  fatty  chunks  of  bacon  in  between.  The  Kid 
sat  on  the  sledge,  too  tired  to  move  until  he  must,  his 
strong  leg  muscles  aching  terribly,  and  his  burned  hand 
and  the  right  arm  apparently  trying  to  see  which  could 
hurt  the  most.  His  partner  fed  him,  cursing  tenderly  as 
he  forced  him  to  swallow  hot  tea  and  to  eat.  Then  Bill 
fed  his  dogs,  velping  expectantly  about  them,  and  last  of 
all  himself. 

Once  during  the  awful  trip,  while  men  and  beasts  strug- 
gled on,  battling  with  hunger,  weariness  and  arctic  cold, 
the  Kid  gave  out  entirely,  and  laid,  covered  by  all  the 
blankets,  like  one  dead,  on  the  sledge.  The  dogs,  led  by 
big  Mogi,  pulled  gamely  with  the  heavy  added  burden, 
and  Bill  beat  them  forward  like  a  madman,  with  only  the 
one  thought — that  they  must  reach  the  doctor's  camp. 

And  when  they  arrived  one  afternoon  a  week  later,  pull- 
ing up  at  the  cabin  almost  buried  in  the  snow,  the  young 
fellow  who  greeted  them  told  Bill  that  the  doctor  was 
camped  somewhere  up  in  the  Tanana,  to  stay  until  spring. 
They  remained  two  days,  the  Kid  fighting  manfully  for 
life,  and  Bill  preparing  for  the  two  hundred  odd  miles  to 
the  coast. 

"Leave  him  with  me,"  said  the  doctor's  partner,  "and 
you  either  find  Doc  up  above,  or  travel  light  alone  and 
bring  the  fellow  at  Dyea  back." 

"I'll  take  him,"  said  Bill,  with  set  teeth  and  bloodshot 
eyes.  "He's  got  a  date  back  in  the  States,  and  by  the 
Lord  I'll  land  him  there !" 

The  Kid  only  muttered  vaguely  from  where  he  sat  in  a 
corner  looking  vacantly  in  front  of  him. 

Bill  lost  all  track  of  time,  but  he  knew  the  old  trail 
above  Miles  Canyon  when  they  struck  it,  with  the  blazes 
high  in  the  tree  trunks  where  the  Yukon  pioneers  had 
marked  the  safest  path  in  the  days  of  the  first  rush  two 

181 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

years  before.  The  dogs  were  almost  down  and  out,  living 
on  half  rations  and  weak  from  dragging  nearly  two  hun- 
dred pounds  of  dead  weight,  for  the  Kid  had  gone  under 
completely,  leaving  Bill  with  the  sagacious,  husky  Mogi's 
help,  to  buck  the  trail  alone. 

It  was  morning,  Bill  figured;  he  couldn't  tell  because 
he  was  struggling  against  snow  blindness.  He  had  stag- 
gered on  for  hours,  urging  the  tired  team  to  hasten,  with 
Mogi  keeping  them  in  a  straight  line  by  some  strange  dog 
language  expressed  in  short  yelps  and  angry  whines.  But 
they  could  go  no  further,  and  one  by  one  the  team  stopped 
dead,  and  Bill,  weeping  hysterically,  called  a  halt.  His 
first  care  was  for  the  Kid.  Together  he  and  Mogi  pulled 
at  the  blankets,  uncovering  part  of  the  invalid's  face  to 
the  air.  The  Kid's  blue  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came. 
The  other  dogs  sneaked  about,  seeking  food,  then  craftily 
buried  themselves  in  the  snow  for  warmth,  but  Mogi, 
whining  pitifully,  put  his  forefeet  on  the  sledge  and  licked 
at  the  Kid's  fur  hood. 

Bill,  nearly  beaten,  begged  the  Kid  childishly  to  say 
something — anything — and  kept  on  shaking  him.  He 
whispered  that  twenty  miles  more  would  do  it,  and  asked 
him  if  he  wouldn't  brace  up,  for  the  girl,  if  he  didn't  want 
old  Bill  any  more.  And  the  Kid  heard. 

"Say,  Bill,  it's  all  bets  off  with  me,  I  know,"  he  mut- 
tered. "And  you — you  tell  'em  that  I  couldn't  make  it, 
see?  Give  the  money — my  share — to  Louise,  her  folks 
are  poor,  and  it's  what  I  meant  to  do,  even  if  she  don't 
care  any  more — Bill,  Bill !  Don't  leave  me,  don't  !"- 

Mogi,  smelling  death,  set  up  a  mournful  howl,  and  Bill, 
arms  about  the  Kid,  sobbed  out  curses  on  a  cruel  fate  that 
let  a  man  die  like  this. 

But  the  Kid's  troubles  were  over,  and  the  soft  snow, 
falling  quietly,  covered  the  live  man  and  the  dead  alike, 
while  Mogi  howled  dismally,  then  crept  under  the  sledge 
coverings  and  rested  in  the  cheering  warmth. 


Down  at  Dyea  men  asked  one  another  how  the  Indian 

182 


THE  BOSTON  KID'S  LAST  TRIP. 

had  made  the  trail  with  four  starved  dogs  (the  rest  had 
died  along  the  way)  and  a  sledge  weighted  with  his  part- 
ner's body,  when  Bill  hit  camp,  gaunt  and  lean  from  hun- 
ger and  blind  from  the  white  glare.  "The  lead  dog 
helped,"  Bill  explained  when,  after  food  and  sleep  in  the 
"Seattle"  store's  bunkhouse,  he  came  back  to  himself  and 
demanded  to  know  where  they  had  put  the  Kid  and  his 
dust — and  Mogi.  All  were  safe,  and  when  at  last  the 
steamer  from  the  outside  world  arrived,  unloaded,  hun- 
dreds of  gold  hunters  and  started  home,  Bill,  Mogi  and  the 
Kid's  body,  embalmed  by  the  Dyea  doctor,  went  back  on 
her,  bound  for  South  Carolina. 


There  was  a  lawn  fete  in  progress  at  the  Kid's  old 
home  one  July  night  when  a  tall  man,  black  haired  and 
solemn  looking,  with  a  big  gray  dog,  demanded  speech  of 
the  mistress  of  the  house.  She  came,  wondering,  a  hand- 
some, gray  haired  woman  in  evening  dress,  and  with  her 
a  younger  woman,  bright  eyed  and  interested. 

Bill  told  his  tale  quite  simply,  gazing  at  the  one  the 
Kid's  mother  called  Louise,  as  she  clutched  his  arm  and 
wept  wildly. 

"He  made  good,  ma'am,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "an'  he 
was  my  pal.  Nothin's  been  the  same  since,  and  now  I've 
brung  out  the  money — and  the  Kid,  I'm  goin'  back  to  our 
claim  to  live.  He  was  an  ace,  an'  he  never  whimpered, 
not  once.  Here's  the  dog  he  liked.  Him  an'  me's  pals 
now.  Good-by,  and  good  luck."  He  handed  her  a  bank 
book  and  some  other  papers,  then  looked  again  at  the  girl. 

"You  was  wrong,"  he  said,  slowly,  "dead  wrong,  but 
you  didn't  know  it.  He  thought  a  lot  of  you.  Come  on, 
Mogi,  we  got  to  hit  the  trail  back  to  Seattle."  Mogi 
howled  once,  softly,  and  followed  Bill  back  to  the  frozen 
North  which  beckoned  them. 


183 


The  Rival  Landladies  and   the 
Bridal  Party. 

NEXT  to  the  Irving  Place  house  of  Mrs.  de  Shine,  with 
whom  so  many  of  "the  profession"  boarded  while  play- 
ing New  York,  was  the  boarding  house  of  Miss 
Georgie  Gray,  a  retired  variety  performer.  Miss  Gray 
had  been  a  male  impersonator,  in  which  line  she  had 
acquired  fame  and  cash  before  retiring.  She  adver- 
tised home  comforts  for  performers,  and  catered  only 
to  vaudeville  people.  Between  her  and  Mrs.  de  Shine 
there  was  bitter  feeling,  and  in  the  long  Summer  even- 
ings, when  both  ladies  sat  on  their  front  steps,  they 
made  unpleasant  remarks  about  each  other's  past. 

Miss  Gray  still  affected  gentlemanly  airs.  She  wore 
stiff  shirt  waists  and  starched  collars,  large,  manly 
shoes,  scorning  the  more  feminine  kimonos  in  which 
the  heavy  figure  of  Mrs.  de  Shine  was  usually  wrapped. 
Miss  Gray  wore  derby  hats  and  smoked  cigars,  and 
her  voice  was  gruff.  She  discussed  the  late  fight  news 
and  general  topics  with  the  male  boarders,  and  de- 
clined to  listen  to  the  prattle  of  the  ladies ;  while  Mrs. 
de  Shine  loved  nothing  better  than  to  weep  with  them 
over  their  hard  luck,  aiding  them  by  her  tender  sym- 
pathy. 

The  Great  Bodena,  the  comedy  juggler,  lived  at  Mrs. 
de  Shine's  during  his  first  week  in  from  a  hard  season 
on  the  road.  Bodena's  real  name  was  Mike  Williams, 
but  for  stage  purposes  his  more  imposing  title  looked 
better.  He  had  been  out  with  a  troupe  in  which  he 
played  parts  and  did  his  act  in  an  intermission. 

The  show  had  closed,  and  he  had  the  good  luck  to 

184 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

book  a  week  in  Newark  and  another  in  a  Fourteenth 
street  "continuous"  house.  For  the  following  week 
he  booked  four  "clubs" — these  being  entertainments 
of  lodges  and  social  clubs  who  applied  to  a  vaudeville 
agent,  and  he  "put  on"  the  show.  The  club  paid  him 
a  certain  sum.  He  engaged  the  artists,  and  the  cheaper 
he  got  the  acts  the  more  he  made. 

At  the  one  on  Monday  night,  up  in  the  wilds  of 
Harlem,  Bodena  met  little  Flossie  Hall,  the  singing 
soubrette,  who  worked  alone.  She  had  a  better  place 
on  the  bill  than  he.  He  followed  an  act  in  which  a 
recruit  from  the  "legit,"  after  a  society  scene,  killed 
his  wife,  and  then  poisoned  himself  and  died  very 
noisily,  with  the  audience  weeping  and  snuffing  at  the 
realism  of  the  acting. 

"How'd  you  go?"  she  asked,  as  he  came  off.  She 
had  on  her  street  clothes. 

"Rotten,  thanks,"  he  replied.  "You  know  what  a 
chanct  a  guy's  got  to  make  good  in  a  spot  like  that. 
Them  legits  ought  to  be  kep'  out  of  the  business. 
They  crab  a  good  comedy  act."  She  said  it  was  true. 

The  next  day  as  he  loafed  on  the  corner  of  Four- 
teenth street  with  several  acrobats  and  dancers  who 
were  busy  telling  how  good  their  acts  were,  and  how 
bad  their  friends  were,  he  noticed  Flossie  going  into 
Miss  Gray's.  She  nodded  as  she  passed  him,  and  he 
saw  that  even  in  daylight  she  wasn't  bad  looking. 

Her  clothes  were  not  very  fashionable,  but  they  were 
neat  and  she  wore  no  make-up  on  her  pale  face.  That 
night  the  New  Rochelle  Comedy  Four  asked  Bodena  to 
come  in  and  hear  them  try  over  some  new  stuff.  The 
quartette  sang  several  selections,  after  which  a  poker 
game  was  started. 

Each  man  had  to  take  turns  carrying  the  water 
pitcher  down  to  the  corner,  filling  it  there  with  an 
amber  liquid  topped  by  a  white  froth.  The  party  be- 
came very  cheerful,  and  when  Bodena's  second  turn 
came  he  neglected  to  find  out  if  the  coast  was  clear 
before  starting,  as  Mrs.  de  Shine  had  strict  rules  as  to 

185 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

the  rushing  of  growlers.  As  he  went  gaily  down  three 
flights  of  stairs  the  landlady's  door  opened  softly  and 
an  angry  eye  noted  his  pitcher. 

The  boss  met  him  on  the  second  floor  as  he  came 
up,  with  the  evidence  in  one  hand.  "Well,  Mista  Bo- 
dena,  I  s'pose  you  call  yerself  a  gent?"  said  she,  stern- 
ly, "bustin'  rules  in  a  house  where  yuh  been  treated 
white,  an'  hollerin'  out  songs  when  folks  is  tryin'  to 
sleep !  Take  that  beer  out  of  this  house !" 

"Oh,  lemme  just  take  this  one  up — the  boys  are 
waitin',"  pleaded  Bodena,  "an'  we'll  be  good;  honest 
we  will !"  The  New  Rochelle  Comedy  Four  had  heard 
his  voice  and  they  were  peeping  over  the  banisters. 

"Aw,  bring  it  up,  bo !  Don't  let  her  bluff  you !" 
shouted  Johnny  Trippit,  the  buck  dancer,  who  had 
joined  the  party.  The  thirsty  quartette  made  sassy 
remarks  to  their  landlady ;  and  when  Bodena  broke 
from  her  grip  and  galloped  upward  they  greeted  him 
with  cheers. 

"Every  one  of  yuh  guys  git  out  of  my  house!" 
stormed  Mrs.  de  Shine,  "an'  settle  before  yuh  vamp ! 
That  goes  fur  the  hull  bunch,  an'  it  ain't  no  kid." 

"Rats !"  yelled  Bodena.  He  had  a  little  money  saved 
up,  and  there  were  other  places.  But  the  quartette 
were  rueful.  They  were  broke  until  they  got  their 
salary  Saturday  night,  and  the  settling  would  be  a 
hard  scratch.  So  next  morning  Tommy  Willetts,  the 
baritone,  bravely  faced  the  landlady  and  made  a  strong 
talk  for  his  partners. 

"A  public  apology  fur  them  fresh  shoots  yuh  made 
at  me — an'  yuh  gotta  make  it  at  the  table — kin  square 
it,  an'  nothin'  else,"  answered  Mrs.  de  Shine,  deter- 
minedly. "An'  Mista  Bodena's  gotta  do  the  same." 

Bodena  declined  to  humble  himself,  so  he  packed 
his  two  grips,  and,  paying  his  bill  haughtily,  he  left. 
He  applied  to  Miss  Gray  for  board,  and  when  he  told 
her  he  couldn't  stand  any  more  of  the  De  Shine  food 
she  gave  him  a  better  room  than  he  would  ordinarily 

1 86 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

have  obtained  and  was  very  cordial.    "Have  a  cigar?" 
said  she,  amiably,  producing  a  case. 

"Gee,  I  guess  I  got  the  old  lady  goin',"  he  reflected, 
cheerfully.  Although  the  cigar  was  bad  he  didn't 
know  it,  and  probably  would  not  have  liked  the  taste 
of  a  good  one,  anyway.  At  dinner  his  place  was  op- 
posite Flossie  Hall.  Every  time  the  corned  beef  and 
cabbage  got  near  to  Flossie  a  large  burlesque  lady 
next  her  grabbed  the  platter,  helped  herself  liberally, 
and  sent  it  down  the  line. 

"Listen,  ain't  they  any  chanct  of  gettin'  some  meat?" 
demanded  Flossie,  finally,  when  Miss  Gray  hove  in 
sight.  But  the  landlady  was  too  busy  attending  to  a 
boarder  who  had  dared  complain.  It  was  George  B. 
Jeffreys,  of  Jeffreys  &  Jeffreys,  rapid-fire  talking  act. 

His  delivery  off  the  stage  was  not  as  fluent  as  when 
spurred  on  by  the  audience's  applause,  but  Mr.  Jef- 
freys's  voice  was  loud  and  angry.  "The  bacon  we  et  at 
breakfast  was  froze  to  the  plate!"  said  he,  bitterly. 
"You  had  to  get  a  ax  to  chop  it  loose !  An'  this  thing 
of  never  gettin'  no  meat  but  stoo  is  the  limit !" 

"Now.  see  here ;  can  that  line  o'  comedy !"  shouted 
Miss  Gray,  advancing  upon  him.  "That  stuff  has  all 
been  did  before  !  People  what  ain't  satisfied  with  good, 
pure,  home  cookin'  better  chase  out  o'  my  house !  An' 
if  you  was  big  as  a  hoss  an'  gimme  any  sass  I  kin  lick 
you  myself!" 

Boclena  looked  a  quick  look  at  the  ferocious  lady. 
Mr.  Jeffreys,  who  was  large  and  red-headed,  seemed 
to  regret  his  hasty  remarks.  "Now  that'll  be  all  right, 
Georgie,  don't  go  up  in  the  air !"  he  replied,  soothingly. 
"Only  a  guy  does  sorta  like  a  change,  an'  we  ain't  had 
pie  for  a  week,  either." 

"I  kin  lick  you,  or  six  like  you,  with  one  hand  tied !" 
repeated  Miss  Gray. 

"Say,  listen,  is  they  any  chanct  of  me  gettin'  some 
meat?"  Poor  Little  Flossie  was  still  meatless.  Bo- 
dena  was,  as  a  rule,  none  too  polite  to  females.  But 
this  white-faced,  forlorn  little  girl  was  hungry,  and 

187 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

nobody  seemed  to  care  whether  she  was  or  not.  He 
hailed  Sammy  Mullet,  of  Mullet  &  Brown,  comedians, 
who  was  in  process  of  taking  his  sixth  helping. 

"Hey!  Lemme  have  that  there!"  said  Bodena, 
abruptly.  He  snatched  the  dish  from  Mr.  Mullet's 
hand.  Flossie  sighed.  If  the  juggler  finished  the 
meat  where  would  she  come  in?  "Go  after  it,  sister!" 
said  Bodena  gallantly,  and  he  dumped  several  thick 
slices  on  Flossie's  plate. 

He  also  foraged,  having  a  true  boarding  house  reach, 
and  gathered  in  four  dill  pickles,  some  potatoes  and 
the  bread,  which  he  shoved  across  to  the  little  sou- 
brette.  Flossie  thanked  him  with  her  best  stage  smile. 
"I  seen  you  up  to  the  club,"  she  ventured,  and  Bodena 
nodded.  He  wasn't  going  to  get  mixed  up  with  any 
designing  damsel,  so  he  maintained  a  cool  air.  Flossie 
went  on  eating,  but  she  had  looked  him  over  carefully. 

His  gray  suit  was  quite  smart,  and  his  diamond 
horeshoe  pin  flashed  in  the  most  delightful  way.  He 
was  young  and  smooth  shaven  and  his  black  hair  was 
plastered  tightly  down.  The  man  with  the  trained 
ponies  addressed  Bodena.  "Hello,  Mike!"  said  he. 
"When  did  you  get  in?  I  jest  signed  with  them  street 
railway  people  who  got  a  circuit.  Ain't  you  with  the 
big  top  no  more?" 

"Nope.  Been  in  voddaville  a  year  doin'  a  single 
turn,"  answered  Bodena.  "Where  do  you  go  from 
here?"  Flossie  heard  this.  A  single  act!  Then  he 
wasn't  married  or  his  wife  would  be  working  with 
him.  She  had  not  seen  what  he  did  at  the  club  they 
had  both  played.  Bodena  and  the  animal  man  went 
out  together. 

Flossie  wasn't  working  that  week,  so  she  went  out 
and  made  several  calls  at  various  theatres  where  she 
had  friends  on  the  bills.  At  her  agent's  the  next  day 
she  ran  into  Bodena  booking  some  work. 

"Anything  for  me  to-day,  Jules?"  she  inquired,  hope- 
fully. There  was  nothing  doing.  She  made  the  weary 
round  of  the  agents  and  went  home.  "I  wish  I  had  a 

1 88 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

good  partner,"  she  thought;  sadly,  as  she  mended  her 
stage  slippers  up  in  her  little  room.  "Seems  like  theys 
a  million  single  singin'  acts.  Other  dames  got  some- 
body to  keep  after  the  agents." 

Bodena  was  in  the  hall  smoking  cigarettes  as  she 
went  down  to  dinner.  He  handed  her  the  milk  and 
the  butter,  and  speared  a  piece  of  cake  which  he  held 
out  on  his  fork.  It  was  the  best  way  to  be  sure  of 
getting  any,  this  securing  it  in  advance.  But  he 
talked  show  business  with  the  animal  man  and  didn't 
look  at  Flossie.  "S'cuse  me,"  he  began,  when  the 
landlady  passed,  "how  about  some  pie?  I  can't  see 
this  here  bread  puddin'  gag."  Flossie  worried  on  his 
account.  Few  dared  to  use  such  a  commanding  tone 
to  Georgie  Gray. 

"They  is  no  pie!"  replied  the  latter,  coldly. 

"Well,  I  seen  some !"  Bodena  gazed  defiantly  at  her. 
"An'  if  six  bum  three  a  day  acts  cud  get  some,  I 
guess  you  better  pay  a  little  attention  to  me !"  The 
boarders  stopped  conversing.  Would  she  send  her 
famous  right  at  the  person  who  talked  back  to  the 
boss?  Flossie  thrilled  with  admiration.  How  brave 
and  bold  he  was,  and  even  his  contemptuous  remarks 
about  three-a-day  turns,  of  which  she  was  one,  didn't 
anger  her.  She  would  have  been  two  a  day,  as  he  was, 
had  she  been  consulted. 

"Gimme  some  pie !"  said  Bodena,  loudly.  The  bluff 
went.  Miss  Gray  was  only  a  woman  after  all,  and 
her  assumed  manliness  was  not  the  real  thing.  "Why, 
suttenly,  in  that  case,"  said  she,  with  a  propitiating 
smile  at  this  belligerent  recruit  from  the  hated  Mrs.  de 
Shine's  home;  "Clara'll  run  an'  git  you  some!  Clara, 
run  git  him  a  piece  of  pie  or  I'll  hand  you  a  punch !" 

"Two  pieces!"  said  Bodena. 

"Well,  git  'im  two,  then,"  ordered  Miss  Gray.  She 
approached  Bodena  and  became  confidential.  "It's 
just  like  this,"  said  she,  "a  hull  lot  of  people  allus  say 
feed  'em  on  pie  an'  they  don't  eat  s'much  meat.  Well, 
that  runs  fur  Sweeney,  that  talk  does.  My  experience 

189 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

is  you  kin  give  seven  dollars'  worth  of  pie  and  its  like 
a — her  doover,  as  the  French  say — they  eat  more  meat 
than  before,  an'  that's  why  I  don't  have  it.  A'corse 
you  kin,  or  any  my  frens.  I'm  a  good  feller  when  you 
know  me." 

When  the  pie  came  Bodena  caught  Flossie's  eye. 
She  got  the  second  piece.  Was  there  ever  such 
thoughtful  courtesy?  she  wondered.  But  Bodena  was 
only  showing  off.  He  had  no  feeling  at  all  about  her. 

Flossie  had  been  in  the  business  five  years.  She  had 
married  an  acrobat  whose  other  wife  turned  up  one 
day,  and  it  complicated  matters  so  that  Flossie  joined  a 
burleque  show  and  struck  out  alone.  Then  she  got 
into  vaudeville.  Some  weeks  she  worked,  and  others 
she  didn't.  She  had  friends  here  and  there,  but  one 
needed  a  "front"  to  make  a  hit  with  the  managers,  and 
fronts  cost  money. 

She  was  going  upstairs  when  a  messenger  arrived 
for  her.  A  certain  agent  was  shy  an  act  for  a  benefit 
in  New  Rochelle,  and  there  was  six  dollars  in  it  if  she 
wanted  it.  Six  would  just  pay  her  board  on  Saturday 
night,  and  Flossie  rejoiced.  She  had  seven  which  she 
locked  in  her  trunk,  keeping  out  enough  change  to  get 
there. 

She  was  next  to  last  on  the  bill,  she  found.  Bodena 
was  there,  too.  Flossie's  heart  began  to  jump  when 
she  saw  his  name,  and  some  of  his  props  and  plush 
table  covers  with  a  gilt  monogram,  on  two  tables  in  the 
second  entrance.  He  closed  the  show,  and  she  went 
on  just  ahead  of  him.  And  when  she  came  off,  the 
agent  had  gone,  leaving  word  for  the  performers  to 
call  at  his  office  the  next  morning  and  get  their 
money. 

There  was  grumbling  from  every  one,  but  not  until 
she  was  in  her  street  clothes,  with  every  one  out  of  the 
theatre,  did  she  remember  that  she  had  but  a  nickel  in 
her  purse.  "Oh,  I  dunno  what  tuh  do !  I  can't  go  ask 
some  strange  people  for  the  carfare!  I  wish  I  was 
dead !" 

190 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

She  set  her  grip  down  in  the  dark  street  outside  the 
stage  entrance  and  wept  forlornly.  The  stage  door 
slammed  shut,  and  a  man  carrying  two  suit  cases  came 
out.  "Hey,  what's  up?"  He  had  hold  of  her  arm, 
before  he  recognized  her.  "Gee,  it's  the  kid  from 
Gray's!  What's  wrong?" 

Bodena's  voice  was  kind,  and  after  a  vision  of  ap- 
pealing to  anyone  in  a  "jay"  town  for  aid  Flossie  hailed 
him  as  an  angel.  "An'  me  comin'  out  like  a  slob  an' 
leavin'  money  home  in  my  Taylor,"  said  she  when  he 
had  laughed  and  told  her  to  cheer  up,  "did  he  pay 
you?" 

He  hadn't  paid  any  one,  but  Bodena  was  a  wise  lad, 
and  he  always  carried  a  little  money — when  he  had  it 
to  carry.  They  took  up  their  grips  and  over  in  the 
station  they  found  the  other  performers.  The  train 
was  late. 

He  sat  beside  her  when  they  got  aboard,  and  then 
Flossie,  tired  by  a  day  of  tramping  up  and  down 
agents'  stairways,  fell  asleep.  Bodena  saw  Bill  John- 
son, of  the  Four  Johnsons,  up  ahead,  with  an  arm 
around  the  tired  Mrs.  Johnson.  Bill  didn't  seem  to 
care  who  saw  him,  and  he  unpinned  his  wife's  hat,  and 
smoothed  her  hair  tenderly. 

Bodena  was  surprised  at  himself  for  being  in  the 
same  seat  with  a  soubrette,  when  he  didn't  care  a  rap 
about  soubrettes.  One  of  Flossie's  hands  lay  limply 
in  her  lap  as  she  breathed  softly  in  her  sleep.  The 
glove  had  been  mended  many  times,  and  the  jacket 
was  worn  and  not  in  the  style  of  the  moment.  Some- 
how, he  began  to  figure  out  how  the  little  girl  lived. 
She  wasn't  tough  like  some  of  them,  or  her  clothes 
would  have  been  better.  She  awoke  suddenly  and 
opened  her  eyes.  She  blushed  when  she  saw  him  ob- 
serving her,  and  so  did  Bodena.  He  felt  foolish  and 
wished  himself  away. 

"Grand  Central !"  They  were  in  New  York.  It  was 
12  o'clock,  and  Bodena  and  Flossie  hurried  to  the  sub- 
way station.  The  more  he  looked  at  her  the  better  he 

191 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

liked  her.  She  was  so  small  and  pretty,  in  spite  of  her 
paleness.  "Say,  kid,  you're  awful  cute !"  he  remarked, 
and  got  red  again.  Flossie  gave  him  a  coquettish 
glance,  and  she  giggled  happily. 

"I — sometimes  I  get  awful  lonesome !"  Bodena 
hadn't  meant  to  say  it,  and  yet  he  did,  as  they  dodged 
people  coming  in  at  the  Fourteenth  street  entrance. 
He  pressed  Flossie's  arm,  and,  at  the  risk  of  breaking 
his  own,  crowded  his  two  suit  cases  into  one  hand. 
"We'll  leave  the  grips  an'  go  git  some  lunch,"  he 
went  on. 

Love  had  warmed  his  cold  heart  without  warning, 
and  Bodena  did  not  even  give  Cupid  battle.  In  fact, 
he  liked  it.  They  hurried  along  Irving  Place.  "Mrs. 
de  Shine  !  They're  comin' ;  I  see  'em  !"  shouted  a  male 
voice,  as  they  reached  the  home  of  Miss  Gray. 

The  doors  of  the  mansion  de  Shine  opened,  letting 
out  a  dim  light.  Mrs.  de  Shine,  herself,  in  a  black  silk 
kimono,  elevated  her  skirts,  displaying  some  chaste, 
white  stockings,  and  pattered  down  to  the  street.  "This 
way !"  she  said,  in  her  friendliest  manner.  "The  bridal 
chamber's  waitin'  an'  I  got  a  swell  lunch  set  out,  an' 
not  a  soul  but  me  an'  Mista  Johnson,  property  man 
over  tuh  the  showshop,  knows  it.  I  knowed  yuh 
wouldn't  want  a  gang  around !" 

"But  we" — Flossie  began — but  Mrs.  de  Shine's  voice 
never  stopped  when  it  had  work  to  do.  "As  soon  as 
Johnny  Trippit  told  me  a  bridal  couple  was  comin' 
tuh  that  hussy  Gawgie  Gray's,"  she  continued,  "I  says, 
'Well,'  I  says,  Til  beat  her  to  it.'  It  don't  make  no 
difference  tuh  yuh  where  yuh  stop,  an'  yuh'll  git  a  deal 
here  that'll  tickle  yuh  tuh  death.  I — why,  fur  land's 
sake!  Mista  Bodena!" 

She  had  herded  them  into  the  vestibule,  the  Prop- 
erty Man  bringing  up  the  rear.  He  began  to  laugh 
violently. 

"Are  you  the  bridal  couple  what  was  comin'  tuh 
Gray's  on  the  'leven  thirty  from  Buffalo?"  shouted 
Mrs.  de  Shine,  in  amazement. 

192 


RIVAL  LANDLADIES  AND  BRIDAL  PARTY. 

"Gracious  me!"  Flossie  began  to  laugh,  too.  "Why, 
you  mean  Chollie  de  Vere  an'  his  wife,  Erminine,  the 
toe  dancer!"  she  cried.  "They  got  into  Gray's  this 
afternoon,  'cause  they  changed  their  minds  an'  tuck 
an  early  train." 

''Cuss  it !"  cried  Mrs.  de  Shine,  much  vexed.  "Why, 
I  even  got  a  bottle  of  wine !" 

"Well,  that's  one  on  you,  Mrs.  de  Shine,"  remarked 
Bodena.  "I  was  bound  I'd  see  what  you  was  up  to. 
Still  mad  at  me?" 

"Oh,  g'wan !  Suttenly  I  ain't !"  Mrs.  de  Shine  was 
smiling  now  with  the  rest.  "Honest  tuh  Heavings,  I 
got  an  idee  !  I'll  tell  yuh  what  I'll  do !" 

"What?"  asked  the  Property  Man. 

"If  you  folks'll  git  married  I'm  blessed  if  I  don't  give 
yuh  the  bridal  chamber  two  weeks  free  an'  the  lunch 
goes,  too,  to-night,  an'  I'll  pay  the  minister!  Gawgie 
Gray  ain't  tuh  have  the  laff  on  me.  Whadda  yuh 
say?" 

Bodena  looked  at  Flossie,  who  looked  at  the  floor. 
What  use  in  delay  when  one's  mind  was  made  up? 
"How  about  it,  kid?"  he  asked. 

"It  goes  with  me !"  said  Flossie. 


The    Emperor's    Pipe. 

THE  seeing  New  York  tourists  were  grumbling.  Their 
guide  had  led  them  into  a  few  mild  dives  in  Chinatown 
and  to  the  Oriental  bazaar,  where  he  clearly  had  an  ar- 
rangement with  the  astute  Chinese  gentlemen  in  charge 
of  it. 

"Now,  you  kin  buy  Chinese  souvenirs  real  cheap  here," 
he  explained,  "while  all  other  places  is  bunks." 

Many  of  the  tenderfeet  took  his  advice.  "Oh,  Harold, 
see  this  sweet  vase!"  cried  the  young  woman  with  the 
peek-a-boo  waist.  "Oh,  how  I  love  Chinese  things.  How 
I  wish  I  had  one ! 

The  wretched  Harold  sighed.  Then  he  smiled  rather 
sadly,  because  he  had  hopes  of  making  the  lady  Mrs.  Har- 
old, and  it  would  not  be  discreet  to  discourage  her  inno- 
cent desires  in  the  early  stage  of  his  courtship.  "Yes, 
Mary,  you  shall  have  it,"  he  said,  and  then  separated  from 
nine  dollars. 

When  the  tourists  had  ceased  to  purchase,  the  guide 
took  them  away.  He  would  return  for  his  percentage 
next  day.  Mary's  brother,  Bob,  was  young  but  quite  ex- 
perienced. 

"We're  not  really  seeing  anything,"  he  remarked. 
"There  are  lots  of  joints  where  the  people  are  worth  ob- 
serving. This  man  isn't  going  in  any  of  'em.  I  don't 
want  to  go  in  that  restaurant  and  sit  around  with  a  mob 
of  lobsters.  Do  you,  Pop  ?" 

His  father  looked  at  the  other  docile  tourists  trailing 
across  the  street  in  the  wake  of  the  guide. 

"Bah !"  said  he,  sneeringly.  "Seeing  New  York ! 
Your  Maw  and  I  saw  more  out  home  in  K.  C.  when  we 

194 


THE    EMPEROR'S  PIPE. 

went  slumming".  These  here  Easterners  weary  me. 
What's  Mary  got  in  that  bundle  ?" 

Bob  snickered.  "She  shook  him  down  for  some  of  that 
truck,"  he  replied,  indicating  the  infatuated  Harold.  Pop 
laughed.  "Well,  once  don't  hurt,  but  she  mustn't  keep  it 
up,"  he  said.  "Say,  let's  break  away  from  this  outfit  and 
go  in  one  of  these  concert  halls." 

Mary  and  Harold  were  called,  and  with  Maw  and  Pop 
leading  they  entered  a  place  which  promised  well.  It  was 
lively,  and  smelly,  and  seemed  tough  enough  to  satisfy 
the  most  exacting  slummer.  Pop  felt  coltish.  He  imme- 
diately bade  the  waiter  bring  liquids.  "Got  any  cham- 
pagne?" he  asked.  Mary  and  Maw  rustled  into  grimy 
seats,  creating  a  mild  sensation  among  the  regulars. 

The  tip  went  around  that  a  live  one  was  buying  wine. 
The  party  had  a  second  bottle,  and  everything  began  to 
seem  jollier.  Then  the  man  with  one  eye  out  of  commission 
and  the  fried  egg  hat  edged  over  to  Pop.  "Mebbe  youse'd 
like  to  see  sumpin'  nobody  kin  unless  they're  knowed,"  he 
whispered  mysteriously;  "a  poity's  acrost  the  street  an' 
he's  smokin'.  Fur  a  case  apiece  I  kin  show  youse  round." 

"Come  on,  girls  and  boys,"  said  Pop,  gaily,  "we're  going 
to  a  hop  joint."  Mary  gave  a  little  squeal  of  pleasure, 
The  more  refined  and  dainty  the  girl  the  more  she  dotes 
on  delving  into  corners  where  dirty  misery  exists.  She's 
"studying  human  nature."  Followed  by  the  envious 
glances  of  all  the  ladies  and  gents  in  the  place,  "Johnny 
Lookout,"  the  one-eyed  person,  escorted  his  victims  out 
and  up  the  street.  Climbing  a  flight  of  stairs  they  passed 
through  the  kitchen  of  a  Chinese  restaurant  into  an  an- 
cient tenement.  The  guide  knocked  gently  on  a  door, 
while  the  visitors  waited  expectantly  in  the  dimly  lit  hall. 

"Hey,  Mock!"  he  repeated. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  voice  in  reply.  The  party  trooped 
in.  Johnny  Lookout  had  done  more  for  his  employers 
than  do  most  of  his  kind,  for  they  found  themselves  in  a 
large  room  where  various  persons  were  actually  "smok- 
ing hop."  "These  is  frens  o'  mine  from  uptown,"  said 
he ;  "bring  a  couple  shells  an'  a  stem." 

195 


THE    EMPEROR'S  PIPE. 

The  Chinaman  nodded.  "Nobody  but  the  Snitcher 
over  in  the  corner,"  said  he,  "all  right?"  "Tell  him  it's 
fine,"  said  Johnny  Lookout.  Mary's  family  and  Harold 
murmured  politely  in  imitation  of  their  new  friend. 

They  proceeded  slowly  to  the  end  of  the  room.  Paw's 
foot  struck  something  and  he  jumped  back  nervously. 
"Tain't  nawthin'  bnt  a  mattress,  Gov-nor,"  said  Johnny 
Lookout,  reassuringly.  "We'll,  all  get  planted  on  it,  see, 
an'  then  youse  won't  be  a  kippin'  on  the  hoid  floor." 

"Lie  down!  Oo-oo!"  breathed  Mary.  "Oh,  Harold, 
I'm  afraid."  Harold  was  none  too  steady  himself.  Low 
voices  were  all  around  from  where  the  little  flames  of  the 
oil  lamps  burned.  The  air  was  thick  with  opium  smoke. 
Under  Mr.  Lookout's  able  direction  they  assumed  recum- 
bent positions  upon  the  mattress.  There  was  no  room  for 
Harold,  so  he  doubled  up  on  the  soiled  floor  beside  them 
and  wondered  dismally  what  his  new  suit  would  look  like 
when  he  emerged  into  civilization  again. 

"Now,  we're  all  fixed,"  declared  Mr.  Lookout,  pleas- 
antly; "ain't  this  cosy?"  Every  one  hurriedly  replied 
that  it  was  very  nice  indeed.  "Hey,  Snitcher,"  said  he, 
"come  over  here.  I  want  youse  to  meet  some  me  frens." 
From  a  near  by  bunk  an  emaciated  man,  yellow  of  face 
and  pale  of  eye,  arose. 

"Hello,  Lookout,"  he  said  languidly,  "what  youse  doin' 
here?"  "Now  this  guy'll  take  a  shot  for  youse  fur  a  dime 
a  shot,"  whispered  Lookout,  "the  old  morph,  y'know, 
Gov'nor — or  he'll  hit  the  stem.  All  youse  gotta  do  is  to 
stake  him  to  the  price  of  the  dope.  A'course  that  ain't 
savin'  youse  can't  hand  him  sumpin'  if  youse  feel  that 
way." 

All  declared  they  preferred  to  watch  the  versatile 
Snitcher  smoke.  The  Chinaman  brought  two  clam  shells 
filled  with  hop.  "They's  a  lot  of  sufferin'  down  here  since 
that  Frisco  thing  comes  off,"  said  Mr.  Lookout,  "with 
hop  goin'  to  fifteen  bones  a  can,  'stead  of  seven." 

"I  seen  the  time  in  Saint  Looey  when  it's  $22  a  can," 
said  the  Snitcher;  "take  that  bum  pipe  back,  Mock.  I'll 
use  me  own."  With  every  eye  upon  him,  the  Snitcher 

iq6 


THE    EMPEROR'S  PIPE. 

"rodded"  (cleaned)  his  "stem."  Then  with  the  yen  hook 
he  took  a  little  lump  of  the  dope,  placed  it  on  the  bottom  of 
the  pipe's  bowl,  and  held  it  over  the  flame.  The  hop 
bubbled  and  smoked  as  he  carefully  "cooked"  his  pill. 
"Some  poities,"  he  said  dreamily,  "boins  their  pill,  cause 
they  dunno  their  business."  Breathlessly,  the  slummers 
and  slummeresses  observed  him  as  he  put  the  pipe  to  his 
lips,  drew  in  a  long  breath  and  began  to  smoke.  With 
the  "needle"  he  worked  the  pill,  pushing  the  last  bit  close 
to  the  tiny  hole,  through  which  the  hop  connected  with  his 
waiting  interior.  With  a  long,  contented  sigh,  he  laid 
back. 

The  spectators  felt  ill  from  sniffing  the  unaccustomed, 
stifling  odor.  The  Snitcher  enjoyed  several  more  in  rapid 
succession,  there  being  no  need  for  economy  while  Pop 
was  buying.  At  last  he  spoke : 

"To  look  at  this  here  stem  of  mine,"  he  began,  "youse 
wouldn't  see  nawthin'  much  to  it.  But  I  wouldn't  take  a 
century  note  fur  it,  an'  I  need  money  bad.  It  ain't  the 
wort'  of  it,  but  the  associations.  I  could  tell  a  tale  about 
that." 

Johnny  Lookout  kicked  young  Bob.  "He's  startin'," 
he  said.  "Listen." 

"This  here  pipe's  onct  the  Emperor  of  Chiney's  fav'- 
rite,"  went  on  the  story  teller.  "He's  got  udders,  all  in- 
laid an'  fixed  up  nobby  wit'  jools,  but  this  here  plain  old 
stem,  it's  the  one  he  gets  his  gladness  from.  Now,  one  day 
the  court  chamberlain's  carryin'  the  Emp's  layout  up  fur 
his  before  supper  smoke,  an'  he  drops  it.  They's  a  big 
crack  in  it  when  he  takes  it  in,  an'  the  Emp  gits  sore  an' 
truns  it  awray.  The  palus'  chef  gits  a  hold  of  it  an'  it  stays 
in  his  family  till  one  day  he  cooks  up  sumpin'  the  boss 
don't  like  an'  they  boils  him  in  oil.  See? 

"The  stem's  took  by  a  prince,  who  gets  captured  by  rob- 
bers an'  took  off  to  the  mountains.  Bimeby  the  head  rob- 
ber gits  to  smokin'  it,  an'  whenever  he  does  he  has  luck. 
The  Emp  ain't  had  none  since  he  lost  it,  an'  a  gen'ral 
alarm  is  out  from  P'lice  Headquarters  tuh  git  this  back. 

197 


THE    EMPEROR'S  PIPE. 

The  robber  hears  it,  an'  bein'  scared  of  lettin'  it  be  knowed 
he's  got  it,  he  ketches  a  ship  an'  lands  in  Frisco. 

"But  a  Chink  gambler  cops  it  on  this  robber  felly  an' 
beats  it  to  Noo  York.  One  night  I'm  a  layin'  on  the  hip, 
smokin'  up  a  few,  an'  the  robber  guy  comes  in,  bunks 
down  by  me,  an'  tells  me  this  here  tale.  He's  leary  that 
the  elbows  is  after  him,  so  he  leaves  it  wit'  me.  The  High- 
binders is  been  lookin'  fur  it  ever  since,  cause  they'll  know 
it  by  the  crack,  an'  the  Emp's  initials,  he  cuts  in  one  day. 
'E.  C.'  Here  they  are.  See  ?  I  been  keepin'  it  fur  a  ran- 
som ever  since,  an'  I  wouldn't  take  less'n  fifty  anyway  fur 
the  Emp'ror's  pipe." 

Pop  whispered  to  Maw.  "Will  you  take  twenty?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"Hand  it  here,"  replied  the  Snitcher.  "I  wouldn't  never 
a  took  it,  but  I  got  to  git  money." 

The  party  left  soon  afterward,  somewhat  stupid  from 
breathing  the  smoke.  The  Snitcher  called  the  Chinaman. 
"Scratch  'E.  C.'  on  another  pipe,  an'  don't  wake  me  up 
less'n  a  good  mark  comes  in,"  said  he,  "an'  bring  me  an- 
other shell." 


Confession  of  a  Con  Man. 

Pinafore  and  Cleopatra  Fail  to  Make  a  Match. 

PINAFORE  DANNY  and  myself  were  leaning  against  the 
rail  of  an  ocean  liner  as  she  ploughed  through  a  heavy 
sea  somewhere  off  the  Grand  Banks,  booked  to  Cher- 
bourg, thence  on  a  tour  of  various  European  watering 
places.  I  had  spotted  a  prize  worth  our  skill  after  lunch- 
eon on  the  first  day  out,  and  having  doped  out  a  plan  of 
action,  I  was  engaged  in  giving  my  young  partner  his  in- 
structions. The  prize  had  money,  a  chaperon,  and,  of 
course,  a  father  at  the  end  of  the  line  which  we  were 
rapidly  leaving  behind.  She  was  not  pleasing  to  look 
upon,  as  a  true  heroine  of  romance  should  be.  She  was, 
in  fact,  so  absolutely  ugly  and  stupid  that  Pinafore  was 
in  a  state  of  rebellion.  He  declared  that,  sooner  than 
make  love  to  that  old  "battleaxe,"  as  he  disrespectfully 
termed  our  fair  one,  he'd  jump  overboard. 

"Why  the  devil  can't  you  con  her  along  and  nail  her 
coin  ?';  he  demanded  peevishly ;  "you  got  more  sense  than 
I  have.  I'm  sure  to  make  some  break,  and  the  stuff  will 
be  off!  Gee!  she's  so  damned  ugly.  Duke!  Why,  the 
old  fairy's  got  a  harelip,  and  she  ain't  got  the  sense  to 
even  get  a  good  match  when  she  bought  that  false  front 
on  that  blonde  wig  of  hers.  She's  an  awful  thing."  He 
sighed  dismally  and  gazed  sadly  out  upon  the  gray  waters 
which  leaped  about  us.  "I  thought,"  he  continued  mood- 
ily, "that  we  were  coming  over  to  enjoy  ourselves.  I'd 
rather  be  doing  a  bit  in  stir  than  hang  around  her.  It's 
worse'n  working." 

Then,  indeed,  I  realized  how  deep  was  Pinafore's  aver- 

199 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

sion  to  the  task  I  had  set  him,  for  work  to  him  spells  un- 
utterable horror.  I  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  his  for- 
lorn attitude. 

"Pinafore,"  said  I,  gently,  putting  on  my  monocle,  so 
that  I  might  search  his  features  as  he  listened,  "you  are 
so  confoundedly  young  and  foolish!  To  be  sure,  I  did 
say  that  we  would  gamble  a  bit,  and  see  the  pretty  girls, 
and  all  that,  but  here  a  chance,  absolutely  unexpected, 
comes  along  and  you  would  sidestep  it  for  a  few  brief 
weeks  of  pleasure !  My  boy,  if  you  listen  to  me  we'll 
frame  up  this  young  woman  and  the  chaperon,  who's  a 
most  silly  person,  and  have  'em  over  to  London,  and  you 
married  to  the  millions,  two  days  after  we  land !" 

"And  leave  me  married  to  that  old  crow  while  you 
skiddoo,"  groaned  Pinafore.  "I  can't  do  it.  I'd  rather 
go  back  and  be  a  dip,  or  follow  the  trots  again.  It's 
easier,  and  at  least  a  guy  ain't  tied.  Money  ain't  every- 
thing." 

"There  you  again  demonstrate  your  youth  and  inex- 
perience, Pinafore,  lad,"  said  I.  "Money  is  everything. 
Money — enough  of  it — can  throw  a  roseate  hue  about 
even  a  harelip  and  a  squint." 

"And  her  name — Cleopatra  H.  Jones — it's  horrible !" 
he  burst  out,  angrily.  "And  she's  always  grinning  like  a 
Cheshire  cat  when  I  pass  her  chair  and  dropping  things 
so  I'll  pick  'em  up.  Her  work's  coarser  than  ours ;  it  is, 
on  the  level." 

"The  name  undoubtedly  is  distressingly  common,"  I 
remarked  cheerfully ;  "but  you  could  change  it.  We  have 
a  selection  of  really  superior  names,  so  hers  don't  matter. 
As  for  me,  I'd  marry  her,  or  any  other  female  with  a 
bank  roll,  if  I  could  get  her.  But  she  prefers  you.  All 
women  wouldn't,  but  she  does.  I'm  weary  of  leading  a 
catch-as-catch-can  existence,  and  I'm  an  old  man.  I've 
made  you  a  gentleman  in  appearance  and  taught  you  a 
gentleman's  habits.  You're  a  creditable  thief,  and  I  made 
you.  Now  you  must  get  out  and  nail  this  skirt.  It's  only 
fair.  You  can  leave  her  afterward.  I'm  satisfied  if  you 
simply  marry  her,  as  we'll  throw  the  harpoon  into  her  old 

200 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

man  and  shake  him  down  to  a  fare-you-well.  Does  it 
look  any  brighter?" 

"And  I  needn't  stick?"  he  asked,  his  face  clearing.  I 
assured  him  he  need  not.  Once  having  seen  reason- 
Pinafore  became  most  amiable,  and  now  smiled  upon  me, 
showing  all  his  nice  white  teeth,  and  said  thoughtfully 
that  it  wasn't  such  a  bad  plan  after  all. 

"Come  into  the  smoking  room  and  drink  a  pint  of  fizz," 
I  suggested,  "and  I'll  then  tip  you  off  as  to  the  proper 
mode  of  stalking  Cleopatra,  of  the  house  of  Jones." 


Just  then  the  lady  herself  passed  with  the  faithful 
chaperon,  a  pinkish  complexioned,  fair-haired  woman  of 
uncertain  age,  who  giggled  foolishly  at  all  times  and  con- 
stantly discoursed  on  the  absorbing  topic  of  dear  Cleo- 
patra's money  and  of  Cleopatra.  We  had  met  the  day  be- 
fore, in  the  informal  manner  of  ocean  travellers,  when  I 
had  presented  the  card  of  "Colonel  J.  Warrington  Des- 
mond, Durango,  Mexico"  (my  temporary  title),  and  in- 
troduced my  nephew,  John  Desmond,  heir  to  my  own  es- 
tate and  the  immense  interests  of  my  brother,  his  father. 
I  modestly  confided  to  the  chaperon,  after  I  had  tenderly 
wrapped  her  in  my  own  vicuna  rug,  first  ordering  the  deck 
steward  to  place  our  chairs  in  a  more  sheltered  spot,  that 
my  family  owned  at  least  a  quarter  of  Mexico,  all  of  which 
that  young  rascal,  my  nephew,  would  some  day  rule  over. 
I  spoke  in  such  glowing  terms  of  our  Mexican  home  that- 
she  became  tremendously  interested  and  vowed  that  she 
would  love  to  see  such  a  garden  spot. 

I  concealed  a  smile  as  she  artlessly  desired  to  ride 
madly  over  the  rolling  pampas  with  the  warm  south  breeze 
in  her  face.  She  would  hardly  have  added  to  the 
picture,  for  she  weighed  at  least  200  and  was  conse- 
quently a  bit  stout  for  horseback  exercise.  She  said  that 
Cleopatra's  father  was  a  perfect  dragon,  watching  the  dear 
girl's  movements  like  a  jailer,  and  this  was  her  first  out- 
ing. Only  his  trust  and  confidence  in  the  stout  lady  had 
made  the  trip  possible,  and  Cleopatra,  only  a  year  out  of 

201 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

the  convent,  was  as  timid  as  a  startled  fawn.  I  had  an- 
other look  at  the  prize  at  this.  She  was  the  toughest 
looking  fawn  I  had  ever  seen,  but  somehow  the  money 
made  it  easier  to  bear  after  one  became  more  used  to 
the  idea  of  her. 

Pinafore  had  rudely  left  Miss  Jones,  as  I  found  when  1 
suddenly  turned  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on,  and  the 
timid  Cleopatra  was  gazing  after  him  with  soulful  eyes. 
I  immediately  made  myself  agreeable  to  her,  remaining^ 
with  the  ladies  until  the  bugle  sounded  for  luncheon,  after 
which  I  discovered  Pinafore  cutting  the  cards  with  a  man 
from  Chicago  at  $2  a  crack.  Seeing  him  thus  busily  and 
properly  attending  to  business  (he  was  winning)  I  re- 
frained from  rebuking  him  until  the  Chicago  man  got 
enough  and  we  were  left  alone.  Then  it  was  that  I  ex- 
plained to  Pinafore  that  she  of  the  harelip  was  heiress  to 
millions  and  daughter  of  old  Jones,  the  Butte  mining  king. 
I  knew  all  about  the  layout,  and  Fate  had  played  into  our 
hands  by  throwing  the  shrinking  fawn  into  our  clutches. 
She  would  be  ours  before  father  got  wise,  when  it  would 
be  up  to  him  to  gracefully  take  his  medicine  and  buy 
his  son-in-law  off.  This  was  better  than  gambling  for  it. 

Pinafore,  mindful  of  my  warning,  was  most  gracious, 
and  Cleopatra  lavished  upon  him  smile  after  smile.  He 
returned  these  with  a  rather  sickly  grin  at  first,  but  later 
his  sense  of  humor  aided  him  and  he  smiled  back  engag- 
ingly. The  chaperon  glanced  at  me  significantly.  I 
offered  my  arm,  and  words  being  unnecessary,  we  left  our 
cherished  ones  to  prattle  as  young  people  will.  That  was 
what  I  laughingly  said  to  the  chaperon  after  we  were  out 
of  earshot,  which  she  answered  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Cleopatra  has  seen  so  few  young  men,  Colonel  Des- 
mond," she  bleated  presently.  "And  she  seems  quite 
taken  with  your  nephew.  He  really  seems  a  charming 
young  fellow,  and  he  has  such  taking  ways."  (She  had 
unconsciously  perpetrated  a  jest.  Had  she  ever  noted 
Pinafore  "taking"  a  leather  she  would  have  admired  him 
even  if  she  were  shocked,  as  his  work  is  certainly  clever.) 

I  pressed  her  fat  arm  as  the  ship  rolled,  and  I  steadied 
202 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

her  footsteps.  "The  boy  talked  of  her  all  last  night,"  I 
said  laughingly.  "I  should  say  it  was  a  case — eh,  Mrs. 
Morgan  ?" 

"Dear  me !"  she  exclaimed,  pleasantly  disturbed. 
"Fancy!  Really,  her  father  would  want  to  kill  me,  Colo- 
nel. But  it  would  be  a  good  joke,  really  it  would." 

It  seemed  almost  too  easy.  "Is  she  kidding  me?"  I 
asked  myself,  sternly.  This  was  going  to  be  a  case  of  sit 
back  and  let  'em  throw  money  at  you.  Well,  it  happened 
every  day,  and  two  females  gadding  about  alone  were  as 
likely  to  consider  every  good  looking  man  they  saw  as 
perfectly  eligible,  without  taking  the  formality  of  positive- 
ly ascertaining  his  antecedents.  It  was  not  surprising,  at 
that,  for  if  ever  a  man  inspires  confidence  and  respect  at 
the  first  glance  that  person  is  myself,  while  Pinafore  has 
the  air  of  a  well-bred,  up-to-date  young  gentleman  of  good 
position.  (As  he  is.  There  is  not  a  grafter  in  the  coun- 
try who  will  not  tip  his  hat  to  Pinafore  Danny,  Duke  Mer- 
rill's pupil.) 

I  had  the  head  steward  change  our  seats  to  the  table  at 
which  sat  Cleopatra  and  her  chaperon.  Neither  entirely 
gave  way  to  the  seasickness  which  several  times  threat- 
ened to  overcome  them,  and  I  exerted  all  my  ingenuity 
in  contriving,  with  our  table  servant's  aid,  light  dishes 
which  would  tempt  their  faint  appetites.  Cleopatra  be- 
gan to  look  upon  me  as  a  father,  and  I  joked  Pinafore 
upon  the  possibility  of  her  affections  switching  to  me  if 
the  voyage  should  last  much  longer.  This  did  not  create 
the  amusement  on  his  part  I  had  looked  for. 

"You  ain't  got  any  right  to  butt  in,"  he  retorted  heated- 
ly. "And  me  listening  to  her  gassing  for  hours  every 
day !  It's  a  blame  shame,  and  I  won't  stand  for  it !  I've 
set  out  to  hook  up  with  this  fairy,  and  I'm  going  to. 
Now  you  keep  off !" 


I  laughed  until  my  eyes  watered,  while  he  sat  twisting 
about  uncomfortably  on  the  sofa  in  our  promenade  deck 
stateroom,  growling  to  himself. 

203 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

"Well,  by  Jove!  your'e  a  wonder!"  I  said  admiringly. 
"Five  days  ago  you  were  willing  to  take  to  the  briny  deep 
to  escape  her.  I  thought  you'd  prefer  my  becoming  her 
husband.  We  could  adopt  you.  I  think  you're  falling 
in  love  with  her." 

"Oh,  hell !  don't  talk  like  a  fish !"  he  cried.  "I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  it,  that's  all,  and  when  I  begin  on  a  string 
I  like  to  play  it  out." 

"I  shan't  give  you  a  battle  this  time,"  I  answered.  "Cleo- 
patra's a  charming  creature,  but  I'm  too  old  for  her.  I 
shall  come  and  be  godfather  to  the  children  and  give  you 
all  good  advice." 

"You're  the  best  old  guy  on  earth !"  he  declared,  begin- 
ning to  laugh  himself.  "Say,  wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  I 
really  did  get  used  to  her  and  stuck  at  the  job?  I'd  laugh 
myself.  I  don't  look  at  her,  you  see,  and  we  get  along 
great  that  way.  Last  night,  sitting  in  the  steamer  chairs 
in  the  dark,  and  having  a  cognac  after  dinner,  I  figured 
out  I  could  stand  it.  If  it  was  only  dark  always!"  he 
ended  regretfully. 

"You  might  veil  her,  like  a  harem  beauty,"  I  said  idly. 
"That's  a  good  scheme.  I  rather  like  her,  myself ;  but  the 
chaperon  ought  to  go  overboard.  She's  quite  the  gabbiest 
mortal  I  ever  met.  Cleopatra's  got  her  beat  a  block.  We 
need  the  chaperon's  aid  at  present  or  she'll  be  cabling  the 
old  guy  to  set  the  gendarmes  on  us  as  we  leave  the  boat, 
but  when  the  knot  is  tied  it's  back  to  the  tall  pines  for  the 
fat  lady." 

"You  bet,"  he  agreed,  fervently.  "Darn  her  hide,  she 
keeps  patting  me  on  the  arm  and  telling  me  her  dear  dead 
husband  looked  just  like  me.  Do  you  know,  I  thought  of  a 
funny  thing  to-day?"  I  intimated  that  I  would  like  to 
hear  about  it.  "Sometimes,"  he  said  speculatively,  "that 
Cleopatra's  got  a  real  coony  look,  Duke.  I  turned  around 
quick  once,  and  she  was  looking  at  me  and  grinning  in 
her  wisest  way.  But  she  quit  and  put  on  her  baby  voice 
and  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  ever  been  in  love  with  any 
other  girl.  But  she  looked  real  wise  for  a  minute." 

"It's  not  unusual  for  females  to  have  moments  of  wis- 
204 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

dom,"  I  replied,  "but  they  don't  occur  often.  You  proba- 
bly imagined  the  crafty  gaze." 

"But  she  did  it  to-day  again,"  he  said,  lowering  his 
voice  cautiously,  "and,  say,  it  was  queer.  I  said  I  had  a 
great  friend  back  in  New  York,  and  his  name  was  John- 
son, and  that  he  had  a  funny  nickname — "Slippery  John- 
son." 

"You're  an  ass!"  I  broke  out,  exasperated.  "Suppose 
she  were  to  mention  it.  There's  dozens  about  who've  read 
about  Slippery  Ed  cracking  cribs  and  giving  the  elbows 
from  the  Central  Office  the  ha-ha  the  last  time  he  turned  a 
trick  !  That  would  look  fine !" 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  finish,"  he  said.  "By  George! 
when  I  said  that  she  ups  and  says :  'No,  he  ain't  in  New 

York,  he's' And  then  she  gets  red  and  shuts  up  like 

a  clam.  It  got  me  to  thinking." 

"Nothing  to  that !"  I  said.  "She's  read  about  him,  and. 
suddenly  realizing  that  it  wouldn't  look  well  to  speak  of 
such  a  man,  she  stopped.  This  is  liable  to  make  trouble 
if  she  begins  wondering  how  you  know  him.  You  haven't 
the  sense  of  an  infant  goat." 

"I  know  it,"  he  admitted  contritely ;  "but  she's  been  fine 
ever  since.  I've  got  her  going,  and  we're  to  elope  and 
leave  you  and  the  Elephant  (this  was  his  playful  term  for 
the  chaperon)  and  put  you  hep  afterward.  She  must 
have  a  wad  of  notes  somewhere,  Duke,  because  she  said 
they  had  a  time  changing  five  thousand  into  French  coin. 
Gee !  they  spend  plenty,  I  guess.  She's  always  talking 
about  my  place  in  Mexico  and  my  coin.  That's  a  nit." 

"She's  used  to  hearing  about  money — old  Jones  rolls 
in  it,"  I  remarked.  "And  now  slide  into  your  evening 
clothes,  and  we'll  go  in  to  dinner." 


"Cherbourg  at  I  o'clock,  Colonel,"  said  the  chaperon, 
as  she  waddled  up  to  me,  clothed  in  a  long  loose  coat 
which  made  her  look  even  wider  than  usual,  and  clinging 
tightly  to  a  gold  chain  purse  and  a  leather  bag,  in  which 

205 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

she  evidently  carried  valuables,  as  she  kept  a  careful  eye 
upon  it. 

"You  and  I,"  I  began,  continuing  a  conversation  which 
had  commenced  the  night  before,  "are  to  get  into  the 
Paris  express,  discreetly  refrain  from  noticing  the  ab- 
sence of  my  nephew  and  Miss  Jones,  and  go  on  to  Paris. 
They  cannot  get  married  in  France,  as  banns  must  be  pub- 
lished for  three  weeks  and  birth  certificates  shown,  with 
other  embarrassing  ceremonies,  so  they  will  simply  remain 
aboard;  go  on  to  Southampton  and  be  made  one  there, 
whence  they  will  wire  us  to  the  Ritz." 

"Oh,  dare  I  leave  her?"  she  asked  the  heavens,  gazing 
upward  with  hands  clasped  upon  the  leather  bag.  "But 
yes,  I  will.  Her  heart  has  told  her  what  to  do,  Colonel, 
and  who  are  we  that  we  should  thrust  asunder  two  loving 
hearts?" 

"Dear  madame,  you  are  a  model  chaperon,"  I  mur- 
mured, gallantly  kissing  one  pudgy  hand  as  she  laid  it, 
like  a  limp  fish,  upon  the  rail.  "It  would  be  too  cruel. 
We  have  thirty  minutes  more.  Yonder  are  the  torpedo 
boats  of  the  French  navy — those  long,  gray  monsters." 

We  discoursed  at  length  upon  sunny  France,  whose 
shores  lay  near  at  hand,  as  the  liner  steamed  toward  Cher- 
bourg harbor,  where  the  tender  would  meet  us  to  convey 
passengers  and  their  luggage  to  shore. 

Then  at  last  we  were  at  anchor,  watching  the  little  ten- 
der coming  out  to  us.  There  was  a  fine  bedlam  of  sounds 
down  where  the  sailors  were  getting  out  the  luggage, 
with  room  stewards  hustling  back  and  forth,  carrying 
bags  and  hatboxes,  packages  and  rolls  of  steamer  rugs. 

Pinafore  brushed  past  me  in  the  crowd. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said,  exultingly.  "She's  to  stay  in 
her  cabin  until  it's  safe.  I'll  wire  from  Southampton,  and 
bring  her  back  to  Paris,  because  you've  got  to  engineer 
the  deal  with  the  old  man." 

"Farewell,  my  blushing  bridegroom,"  I  said,  and  he 
nodded  with  a  wink. 

The  chaperon  had  herded  a  couple  of  stewards  bearing 
her  various  small  belongings  over  to  where  I  stood.  "Put 

206 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

them  down,  and  put  the  lot  together  on  the  tender,"  she 
commanded.  Then,  turning  to  me :  "Oh,  Colonel,  I'm  so 
nervous  I'm  a  perfect  wreck!  Really,  I  feel  dreadful, 
criminal,  don't  you  know." 

"Brace  up,  dear  Mrs.  Morgan,"  I  begged.  "Cleopa- 
tra's perfectly  safe  with  such  a  fine  big  fellow  as  John  to 
look  out  for  her." 

People  were  all  around  us.  Suddenly  I  became  aware 
that  a  hand  was  reaching  for  my  wallet.  On  principle, 
knowing  what  a  cinch  it  is  to  abstract  a  wallet  from  a  rear 
trousers'  pocket,  I  never  carry  more  than  a  two  dollar 
note  in  one.  But  I  was  curious.  Mrs.  Morgan  was  chat- 
tering excitedly  like  a  magpie.  She  did  not  look  at  me, 
but  still  I  knew  that  my  friend,  the  chaperon,  was  frisking 
me.  I  let  her  take  it,  while  she  kept  on  talking.  Inward- 
ly I  marveled,  for  she  had  me  guessing.  It  was  far  too 
well  done  for  a  kleptomaniac,  unless  one  with  a  long  ex- 
perience. I  knew  where  the  wallet  was,  too.  It  had  gone 
into  a  slit  at  one  side  of  the  long  coat,  either  into  a  pocket 
of  that  garment  or  into  a  pocket  of  the  gown  beneath. 
But  I  couldn't  get  over  it. 

The  crowd  surged  toward  the  gangplank,  impatient  to 
be  first  off,  when  the  luggage  had  been  transferred  and 
passengers  permitted  to  follow  it.  I  drew  my  fat  friend 
close  in  the  crush  and  investigated  the  coat  with  the  speed 
which  has  made  me  famous  among  the  topnotchers  in  our 
set.  I  had  it,  and  with  it  a  roll  of  English  or  French 
notes,  which  crackled  delightfully  as  I  crushed  them  skil- 
fully and  deftly  slid  them  into  a  certain  pocket  of  my  own, 
which  is  not  readily  accessible,  as  it  is  situate  inside  the 
lining  of  the  top  of  my  overcoat  sleeve,  and  I  must  do  an 
acrobatic  stunt  to  reach  it.  She  was  still  chatting. 

We  were  on  the  gangplank.  I  looked  above,  and  on 
the  saloon  deck  was  Pinafore,  and  behind  him  a  red  Tam 
O'Shanter  which  Cleopatra  had  sported  during  the  voyage. 
He  ducked  as  I  caught  his  eye,  then  appeared  again,  and 
peered  down  at  the  deck  of  the  tender,  covered  as  it  was 
with  luggage  and  excited  persons.  His  mouth  opened, 

207 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

as  if  in  astonishment,  then  he  instantly  wigwagged  me 
with  our  familiar  signal  to  look  below. 

There  stood  "Slippery"  Johnson,  an  expectant  grin 
upon  his  face.  What  in  time  was  that  crook  doing  here  ? 
I  inquired  of  myself.  It  was  pretty  near  the  limit. 

"Hello,  Duke!"  he  said  as  I  confronted  him,  "how's 

the  old  pal  ?  I  see  you  met  my" here  he  stopped  and 

looked  puzzled.  The  chaperon  passed  him  with  a  stony 
face,  but  he  caught  her  arm.  "Hey,  Kate,  you  fool !"  he 
said  quickly,  "nothin'  doin',  old  gal.  This  mark  of  yours 
is  Duke  Merrill,  the  flyest  one  of  our  bunch.  I  don't  quite 
see  what  you're  up  to." 


But  the  chaperon  saw,  and  so  did  I,  for  I'm  an  old  fox 
and  have  seen  a  lot.  "Frisco  Kate,"  I  whispered  to  her. 
"Well,  well!  No  wonder  you  nailed  my  wallet.  I  was 
up  a  tree.  But  why  the  dickens  are  you  leaving  the  live 
one  and  the  coin  behind?  Cleopatra,  I  mean." 

"What's  it  all  about?  Be  sociable/'  said  "Slippery," 
joining  in ;  "this  is  my  wife,  Duke." 

It  only  took  two  minutes  for  us  all  to  understand  one 
another.  "Cleopatra"  wasn't  any  more  old  Jones's  daugh- 
ter than  I  was,  but  Slippery's  wife  had  booked  her  as 
"Miss  C.  Jones."  Miss  Cleopatra  Jones,  of  Montana, 
taken  ill  at  the  last  minute,  had  cancelled  her  booking  and 
our  two  friends  had  got  her  room,  an  extra  good  one. 
The  passenger  list  fooled  everybody,  and  "Slippery's" 
wife,  seeing  in  Pinafore  and  myself  a  pair  of  rich  marks, 
was  astonished  and  charmed  to  find  that  her  ugly  friend, 
Nellie  Lynch,  the  shoplifter,  had  made  such  an  instanta- 
neous impression.  She  planned  a  quick  campaign,  con- 
sidering me  quite  as  much  of  a  fool  as  I  did  her.  Pina- 
fore's slip  they  figured  out  as  a  mere  coincidence,  sup- 
posing that  his  acquaintance  was  a  person  of  far  different 
habits  than  the  real  "Slippery." 

"As  Cleopatra's  not  an  heiress  and  neither  is  Pinafore 
an  heir,  I'd  better  blast  their  young  hopes  and  get  their 
baggage  off,"  said  I  when  I  had  recovered  from  the  shock. 

208 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CON  MAN. 

But  both  were  coming  down  the  gangplank  as  I  spoke. 
Thed  had  indulged  in  a  heart-to-heart  talk,,  too,  and  all 
bets  were  off. 

"We're  going  to  Paris  !"  shouted  Pinafore.  "Gee !  this 
is  a  rum  go,  Duke  !  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"Shut  up !"  I  said,  with  a  laugh.  "Get  your  trunk  off 
and  we'll  talk  it  over  on  the  train.  You're  doomed  to 
single  blessedness,  Kid,  for  a  while  yet." 

"Cleopatra"  smiled.  "I  thought  I'd  die  laughing  at 
his  making  love,"  she  observed,  "and  me  with  a  husband 
doing  his  bit  back  in  Auburn.  It  was  a  perfect  scream, 
wan't  it,  Kate  ?" 

But  "Slippery's"  wife,  our  fat  chaperon,  was  in  distress. 
"Good  God !"  she  exclaimed,  in  horror.  "Slippery !  Your 
fall  money  !  It's  gone.  I  had  it  in  my  secret  pocket !" 

"Allow  me,"  said  I,  courteously,  doing  my  contortion 
act  and  bringing  forth  the  roll  of  notes  I  had  purloined. 
"I  think  this  must  be  it." 

Pinafore  guffawed  loudly.  "Oh,  what  a  tangled  web 
we  weave  when  first  we  practice  to  deceive,"  he  quoted. 
"Ain't  we  a  grand  bunch?  I  guess  it's  an  even  bet  all 
around." 


Pinafore  and  "The  Duke"  Skin 
a  Corporation. 

"THESE  bloomin'  crowds  ain't  got  a  kettle  (watch)  to 
every  ten  guys,"  said  Pinafore  in  my  ear  as  we  stood 
smoking  our  cigars  on  the  rear  of  a  Broadway  car. 

"Nix,  to  your  back !"  I  whispered,  warningly.  "There's 
Bill  Funston  from  the  Central  Office  behind  you.  Get 
off."  He  swung  off  at  Thirtieth  street,  and  I  followed. 

We  were  in  bad  luck,  for  our  two  recent  elaborately 
planned  affairs  (robbery  is  a  word  the  use  of  which 
grates  on  my  sensitive  ears)  had  resulted  in  the  most 
annoying  failures,  hence  we  were  playing  painfully  close 
to  the  cushion.  But  suddenly  an  idea  had  entered  my 
mind,  and  to  think  is  to  act  with  me,  to  which  is  due  my 
present  eminence  in  our  profession. 

"We'd  better  blow  this  burg  for  a  while,  Duke,"  said 
Pinafore,  as  we  strolled  through  to  Sixth  avenue.  "When 
it  comes  to  a  point  where  parties  like  us  got  to  dip  for 
grub  money,  it's  pretty  tough.  If  we  don't  get  a  piece  of 
change  soon  we'll  have  to  hit  a  freight  when  we  go,  too." 

"We'll  go,  but  not  far,"  I  replied.  "I've  got  a  scheme. 
You  shall  go  to  work." 

"Work?"  repeated  Pinafore,  horrified  at  such  a  sug- 
gestion. "Me  work?  You  must  be  bughouse." 

"Between  ourselves,  Pinafore,"  said  I,  pleasantly,  "you 
really  should  be  driving  a  truck,  you  know.  But  thanks 
to  my  superior  mental  equipment  you  live  in  vice  and 
luxury.  Temporarily,  you  shall  go  to  work.  It  will  be 
merely  to  further  my  plan,  and,  as  you  have  just  observed, 
we  need  the  money,  my  lad." 

210 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

Pinafore  had  difficulty  in  regaining  his  composure,  and 
I  could  not  blame  him  for  objecting  to  become  a  working 
person,  forced  to  mingle,  of  necessity,  with  the  common 
people.  I  have  trained  him  so  that  he  has  a  proper  con- 
tempt for  the  wretched  drones  whose  earnings  we  acquire 
at  times. 

"You  shall  be  a  street  car  conductor,"  I  continued, 
while  Pinafore  shuddered  at  the  thought,  gazing  gloomily 
at  his  natty  patent  leather  shoes,  as  we  walked  up  the 
street.  "That  you  will  find  easy.  The  only  qualifications 
necessary  are  to  be  able  to  growl  threateningly  when  -a 
wretched  passenger  gets  on  or  off,  scowl  at  all  and  sundry, 
and  act  generally  as  if  you  even  hated  yourself.  Dost 
like  the  picture?" 

"No !"  replied  Pinafore,  emphatically.  "And  I'd  punch 
some  mug  in  the  lamp  before  I'd  been  on  an  hour,  too !" 

"Then  you  shall  get  the  job,"  I  returned,  firmly.  "Be- 
cause that's  exactly  what  I  want  you  to  do.  Thus  you 
will  have  a  brief  respite  from  good  manners,  as  you  have 
an  unaccountable  desire  to  be  a  rowdy,  anyway." 

"Quit  kiddin',"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "What's  comin' 
off?"  Thereupon  I  confided  to  Pinafore  as  much  as 
seemed  wise  concerning  my  idea  for  replenishing  our  lean 
bankroll.  As  he  humorously  observed,  we  hadn't  the 
price  to  buy  a  flea  a  wrestling  jacket.  However,  no  one 
would  have  suspected  it  from  our  appearance. 

One  penalty  of  success  is  that  while  there  are  a  hundred 
places  where  one  can,  if  he  will,  procure  money  from 
hitherto  respectful  friends,  let  him  once  take  advantage 
of  these  opportunities,  and  it  is  all  off.  The  fellow  who, 
when  up  against  it,  tells  no  one,  but  simply  scratches 
along  until  something  turns  up,  always  has  them  guessing. 

So,  now,  although  I  knew  plenty  of  men  at  the  track, 
along  Broadway  or  among  the  grafters,  who  would  be 
glad  to  lend  Duke  Merrill,  topliner  among  the  "con" 
men,  I  asked  no  favors.  Our  jewelry,  selected  with  care 
from  among  our  gleanings  in  that  line,  was  down  in  Me- 
Alender's,  hocked  for  all  we  could  get  on  it,  and  our 
clothes,  excepting  two  suits  apiece,  were  down  on  the 

211 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

Bowery.  The  man  who  took  them  said  he  had  never 
seen  garments  of  such  fine  cut  and  texture  before.  Pina- 
fore, being  young  and  foolish,  no  sooner  found  himself 
without  enough  to  buy  a  cold  bottle  when  it  suited  his 
fancy  than  he  was  for  making  many  rash  and  indiscreet 
moves,  but  my  experienced  hand  held  him  back. 

"But  suppose  the  company  won't  give  up?"  he  inquired, 
when  we  were  seated  in  a  cheap  restaurant,  preparatory 
to  ordering  a  modest  dinner. 

"Bah !"  I  retorted,  irritably.  "How  you  dig  up  hurdles 
to  jump  over  before  you  get  to  them!  They  will  give 
up.  Meanwhile,  run  across  the  street  and  see  what  you 
can  get  on  my  gold  tie  catch.  I  see  I  overlooked  a  bet, 
and  it's  a  pipe  it's  good  for  ten."  Pinafore  hurried  out 
on  his  mission,  while  I  devoted  a  few  moments  to  serious 
thought.  Our  business  was,  indeed,  in  a  bad  way  at 
present  in  New  York,  with  gambling  only  going  on  when 
the  player  had  passed  the  pickets  at  the  double  doors 
without  a  challenge,  and  the  police  butting  in  where  they 
should  remain  out. 


Alas,  the  days  of  yore  are  gone,  and  the  Jeromes,  Mc- 
Adoos  and  Parkhursts,  and  the  sniveling  "committees 
on  vice"  have  all  contributed  their  little  share  to  drive 
the  stars  of  my  class  to  most  distasteful  petty  work,  where 
once  they  scorned  to  go  after  less  than  thousands.  Fancy 
it,  even  I  have  lately  been  driven  to  sliding  my  hand  into 
a  gentleman's  pocket,  abstracting  therefrom  his  roll.  And 
the  size  of  some  of  these  same  rolls  leads  me  to  suspect 
that  ours  is  not  the  only  industry  which  is  not  as  profit- 
able as  it  once  was.  Then,  too,  the  modern  man  has  an 
exasperating  habit  of  doing  business  by  check,  and  after 
the  most  delicate  handling,  often  we  find  that  a  few  blank 
checks  and  a  "finiph"  or  so  are  all  a  wallet  contains. 

In  the  old  days,  when  a  man  had  a  good  sized  wad,  he 
carried  it  about,  flashing  it  pridefully,  so  that  a  crook  had 
a  chance.  Now  half  of  the  mild  sports  of  the  present 
drink  mineral  water  only,  and  are  almost  as  smart  as  we 

212 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

are.  Why,  the  next  generation  of  us  will  be  obliged  to 
go  into  vulgar  trade,  unless  conditions  take  a  turn  for  the 
better. 

"I  got  $12,  Duke,"  said  Pinafore,  returning  as  the  waiter 
set  out  our  meal  on  a  very  soiled  tablecloth.  "Say,  it 
looks  like  a  house  and  lot,  don't  it?  I  wish  I  had  the  $50 
I  staked  Lefty  Smith  to  a  week  ago.  He's  pinched,  any- 
way. So  it  didn't  do  him  no  good." 

"  'Any'  good,  Pinafore,"  I  corrected,  gently.  "You're 
not  going  to  be  a  conductor  long,  so  don't  practise  bad 
English." 

"Ain't  it  funny  how,  when  you're  real  hungry,  any  old 
thing  tastes  good?"  asked  Pinafore,  boyishly.  "This 
hamburger's  bully,  and  kind  of  a  rest,  too,  from  curried 
stuff  in  Indian  rooms,  and  course  dinners,  and  all  that." 

"I  prefer  proper  service,  and  food  prepared  by  a  chef," 
I  answered.  "Still,  as  I  have  told  you  often,  we  must 
take  things  as  they  come." 

*         *         * 

Our.  old  pal,  Barney  Gallagher,  had  a  part  to  play  in  the 
coming  drama,  while  I,  until  the  last  act,  merely  stage 
managed  the  production.  Barney,  like  Pinafore,  was  dis- 
satisfied with  what  he  had  to  do. 

"Why  can't  you  do  it,  and  let  me  do  yours?"  he 
asked,  as  we  sat  at  a  table  in  the  rear  of  his  bar  that  night. 

"Can  either  of  you  make  any  one  think  you're  a  gentle- 
man, and  especially  one  who  is  also  a  lawyer  ?"  I  retorted, 
warmly.  "Not  unless  I'm  behind  you  to  keep  your  feet 
in  the  path.  If  you  don't  want  to  come  in,  you  may  stay 
out." 

"Oh,  I'm  wed  yez,  Dook,"  said  Barney,  hastily.  "Only 
Pinafore's  liable  to  slam  me  around  some,  and  I'd  hate  to 
light  on  me  bum  wing." 

Pinafore  grinned  in  anticipation  of  what  he  would  do 
to  friend  Barney,  who  frequently  shared  in  our  advent- 
ures. 

It  is  Barney's  impression  that  when  we  get  a  sucker 
for  a  bunch  of  coin,  his  share  equals  ours,  and  as  I  divide 

213 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

the  money  he  is  not  likely  to  find  out  his  mistake.  We 
always  prune  Barney's  bit,  because  we  can  spend  our  gains 
so  much  better  than  he,  and  it  does  him  as  much  good  as 
if  he  got  more.  Of  course,  Pinafore  and  I  split  even,  for 
with  my  side  kick  at  least,  of  all  the  world,  I  am  on  the 
level.  More  so  than  I  am  with  myself,  for  there  are 
various  fictions  which  I  have  repeated  so  often  that  I 
cannot  remember  the  truth  of  the  matters  now. 

Barney  was  permitted  to  finance  the  venture  to  the  ex- 
tent of  furnishing  the  cash,  and  as  to  whether  the  subse- 
quent proceedings  in  which  we  took  part  occurred  in  fair 
Manhattan  or  in  another  large  city,  discretion  prompts 
me  that  silence  is  my  best  course.  Then  I  gave  my  or- 
ders, and  when  Pinafore  heard  that  he  was  expected  to 
hunt  for  a  job  with  the  street  railway,  like  any  other  honest 
applicant,  he  was  for  backing  out.  No  doubt  he  had  ex- 
pected, knowing  my  connections  in  many  circles  usually 
not  open  to  grafters,  that  I  would  provide  the  place,  but 
it  was  necessary  that  he  apply  in  person. 

He  got  it,  too,  at  once,  so  he  must  have  made  a  hit,  and 
for  two  days  he  traveled  up  and  down  the  line,  while  the 
car's  regular  conductor  showed  him  how  to  ring  up  fares 
and  signal  the  motorman.  Pinafore  rather  enjoyed  the 
novel  experience,  especially  as  he  netted  a  diamond  pin,  a 
doorkey  and  $8  from  a  lady's  wristbag.  Hanging  open  as 
it  was,  a  positive  invitation  to  him  to  investigate  its  con- 
tents, he  accepted,  and  quickly  transferred  what  it  con- 
tained to  his  change  pocket. 

Barney  and  I  amused  ourselves  by  catching  his  car  at 
intervals  and  observing  him  at  his  duties.  The  manner 
in  which  he  roared  "Fare!"  was  truly  ferocious,  and  he 
made  no  exception  in  our  case,  which  was  being  altogether 
too  zealous,  Barney  declared,  but  Pinafore  winked  at  us 
as  he  went  past.  So  we  forgave  him. 

He  had  quite  a  little  pile  of  souvenirs  from  each  of  his 
five  days,  and  had  it  not  been  advisable  for  us  to  act  at 
once  I  should  have  kept  him  at  such  paying  employment 
for  a  longer  period. 

He  said  the  funniest  thing  was  to  see  the  passengers, 

2l4 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

suspicious  of  one  another,  crowd  close  to  the  good,  if  im- 
patient, conductor,  and  away  from  one  another.  Once  he 
politely  warned  a  dame  that  she  might  lose  her  pearl- 
studded  watch,  displayed  in  foolish  feminine  fashion, 
pinned  to  the  front  of  her  gown. 

She  pertly  informed  him  that  she  guessed  she  knew  her 
business,  and  that  he  was  a  pretty  fresh  conductor.  Nat- 
urally, it  gave  Pinafore  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to  split  her  out 
from  the  ornament  as  she  got  off  and  to  listen  to  her 
woeful  plaints  as  she  climbed  back  on  the  car  and  shouted 
for  the  police. 

Pinafore  gravely  pointed  to  an  innocent  man  hurrying 
across  the  street,  whereat  she  leaped  off  and  gave  chase. 
He  only  regretted  that  his  car  went  so  fast  that  he  missed 
the  finish.  It  was  rather  a  nice  watch.  At  a  certain 
place  kept  by  an  acquaintance  of  mine  I  exchanged  it  for 
twenty. 

We  had  our  wardrobe  back  again  on  the  proceeds  of 
Pinafore's  harvest,  and  when  our  tired  laborer  had  taken 
his  tub  and  assumed  proper  evening  clothes  we  all  dined 
together,  conversing  pleasantly  on  live  topics  of  the  day, 
for  I  make  it  a  rule  to  avoid  talking  shop  while  at  dinner. 
It's  such  beastly  bad  form,  and,  while  Barney's  reminis- 
cences of  noted  crooks  are  interesting,  they  are  not  always 
suitable  where  the  servants  are  about  with  wide  open  ears. 


On  the  sixth  morning  the  time  was  ripe.  Barney  was 
planted  at  a  certain  corner,  where  Pinafore's  car  (a  closed 
one,  for  which  I  had  been  waiting — an  open  one  not  being 
suitable  for  our  purpose)  passed,  and  I  hailed  it  and 
"stepped  lively"  as  the  loud  mouthed  conductor  bade  me 
with  a  most  insulting  air. 

Dressed  as  I  was,  in  a  dark  summer  suit  built  by  a  really 
good  London  tailor,  a  natty  straw  hat  and  low  shoes,  and 
carrying  my  morning  papers,  I  looked  with  my  gray  hair 
and  distinguished  presence  a  most  respectable  person.  The 
conductor  behaved  shockingly,  bellowing  at  ladies  bent  on 

215 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE.'* 

shopping,  frightening  the  timid,  and  refusing  to  stop  until 
it  pleased  him. 

A  lady  sitting  next  me  addressed  me:  "That  conductor 
appears  absolutely  drunk,  sir;  do  you  not  agree  with  me?" 
Soothingly  I  replied  that  the  brutes  employed  by  the  com- 
pany were  a  crying  disgrace  to  the  city.  Various  passen- 
gers took  note  of  the  conductor's  number,  evidently  in- 
tending to  report  him. 

A  poorly  dressed  man,  who  lurched  unsteadily  about, 
got  on.  He  fell  into  the  corner  nearest  the  door  and 
quietly  went  to  sleep.  (Barney  should  have  been  on  the 
stage,  for  his  portrayal  was  excellent.) 

The  conductor,  stopping  on  the  way  to  shout  "Fare !" 
at  me,  which  caused  me  to  indignantly  announce  that  I 
had  paid  it  once  (also  to  nudge  his  foot  with  mine,  as  a 
warning  that  I  desired  no  interpolated  lines),  shook  the 
drunk.  The  latter  opened  one  eye,  chortled  some  unin- 
telligible words,  and  drowsed  off.  Finally,  while  the  other 
occupants  of  the  car  gazed  at  the  sad  sight,  he  sat  up, 
reached  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  slowly  counted  out 
five  pennies  into  one  hand. 

"Here,  take  it,"  he  said,  thickly,  tendering  the  coins. 

"I'll  do  nawthin'  of  the  kind,  see  ?"  yelled  the  conductor, 
offensively ;  "pay  your  fare  with  sumpin'  else  or  I'll  trow 
ycu  off  trie  car !" 

The  drunk  began  to  argue  and  raised  one  hand  in  pro- 
test at  such  unreasonable  conduct.  It  was  clear  he  had 
no  hostile  purpose,  yet  the  conductor  poked  one  fist  into 
the  poor  drunk's  eye,  and  before  any  one  could  move  he 
had  yanked  the  victim  out  of  his  seat  and,  dragging  him 
outside,  hurled  him  from  the  car. 

I  calmed  those  about  me,  begging  them  not  to  descend 
to  the  conductor's  level  by  making  an  assault  on  him 
(Pinafore  could  have  put  the  lot  out  in  one  round),  but 
to  see  the  matter  through  in  the  right  way.  But  the 
drunk  was  not  yet  beaten.  He  had  run  after  the  car, 
jumped  aboard,  and  now,  more  soberly,  he  again  tendered 
his  fare  to  the  conductor,  this  time  holding  out  a  quarter. 
He  held  his  side  and  groaned  piteously. 

216 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

"Internal  injuries  from  the  fall,"  said  a  grave  old  lady. 
The  conductor  had  retired  to  the  platform,  where,  with 
lowering  brow,  he  watched  the  passengers,  who  held  an 
indignation  meeting. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  I,  emphatically,  as  I  sup- 
ported the  shaking  form  of  the  drunk,  "I  am  a  lawyer  of 
this  city.  I  will  see  that  this  man  gets  justice  from  a  rail- 
road company  which  should  have  its  officials  indicted" 

Here  I  was  interrupted  by  enthusiastic  murmurs  and 
remarks.  I  resumed :  "It  will  cost  him  nothing  for  my 
services." 

"Plaze,  sorr,  git  their  names  and  addrethes,"  piped  the 
injured  victim. 

"Certainly,  I  almost  forgot,"  I  replied.  "Who  will 
favor  me?  I  shall  take  the  suffering  martyr  to  my  own 
home,  and  procure  medical  aid  at  once.  This  is  no  case 
for  the  police,  who  are  as  bad  as  the  conductor." 

In  a  body  the  passengers  presented  their  cards,  and 
several  thanked  me  fervently  in  the  name  of  humanity. 
All  were  willing  to  go  upon  the  witness  stand  and  testify, 
so  they  declared.  Two  men  helped  me  lift  off  the  drunk, 
who  had  suddenly  fainted,  and  now  laid  limp  in  my  arms. 
(Barney  was  devilish  heavy,  too.)  One  called  a  cab,  and 
we  drove  off. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  any  of  the  witnesses  to  ask  my 
name,  although  I  had  theirs  in  my  note  book. 

"Gosh,  but  playin'  drunk  gimme  one  peach  of  a  thirst !" 
said  Barney,  opening  one  eye  when  we  had  gone  a  block. 
"Say,  that  punch  Pinafore  give  me  come  near  puttin'  me 
out  on  the  level !  He's  got  a  turrible  wallop." 

"Oh,  we'll  fix  that,"  said  I.  "Now,  you  look  and  act  as 
if  all  your  bones  were  broken,  because  a  doctor's  got  to 
visit  you,  so  that  I  will  have  his  evidence." 


The  doctor  looked  serious  after  he  had  investigated 
Barney's  condition,  for  the  latter  moaned  piteously  when- 
ever any  portion  of  his  anatomy  was  undergoing  official 
scrutiny.  I  told  him  just  what  had  happened  to  the  pa- 

217 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE.'* 

tient,  and  he  waxed  wroth  at  such  persons  as  "that  con- 
ductor" being  employed  by  any  one. 

He  said  he  would  gladly  put  his  diagnosis  in  writing, 
and  if  the  man  died  his  family  should  be  able  to  collect  a 
I  retty  penny. 


With  the  certificate  and  other  memoranda  in  my  pocket 
I  put  on  a  frock  coat  and  top  hat,  in  spite  of  the  heat, 
as  I  wished  to  look  imposing,  and,  calling  upon  the  gen- 
eral superintendent  of  the  street  railway,  I  sent  in  a  card 
which  read:  "Samuel  Johnson  Blackstone,  Att'y-at-Law." 
The  superintendent  had  already  been  informed  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  he  assured  me  earnestly  that  had  they  been  able 
to  find  the  conductor  he  would  have  been  discharged  im- 
mediately. But  the  fellow,  evidently  fearing  the  conse- 
quences of  his  act,  had  disappeared,  leaving  his  car  three 
blocks  before  it  reached  the  barns.  The  address  he  had 
given  as  his  home  was  a  vacant  lot  in  The  Bronx,  a  man 
sent  there  had  reported. 

"All  this  is  interesting  to  you,  possibly,"  I  said,  as  he 
finished,  "but  there  is  a  more  vital  matter  to  be  adjusted." 

"You  will  have  no  luck  suing  us !"  he  interrupted  rude- 
ly ;  "we  beat  a  dozen  cases  a  day." 

"Indeed  ?"  I  answered,  courteously,  "but  this  victim  of 
a  most  frightful  and  unwarranted  assault  lies  at  the  point 
of  death.  Here  is  a  physician's  report  of  the  internal  in- 
juries he  has  sustained.  Also  the  names  of  witnesses. 
If  you  fight,  I  will  beat  you  to  a  standstill,  and  you  can 
depend  that  $10,000  damages  will  be  the  least  your  com- 
pany will  have  to  pay.  However,  the  family  of  this  hon- 
est working  man  are  left  without  support,  and  immediate 
relief  is  what  they  must  procure.  We  are  willing  to  set- 
tle the  case  for  $1,600  in  cash  to-day." 

He  looked  thoughtful.  "It's  your  best  plan,"  I  re- 
marked, gently. 

"One  moment,  please,"  he  said,  suddenly,  and  with  an 
air  of  increased  respect,  "I  wish  to  consult  with  some  one." 
He  went  to  the  glass-enclosed  telephone  booth,  shut  the 

218 


PINAFORE  AND  "THE  DUKE." 

door  and,  keeping  an  eye  upon  me,  he  lifted  the  receiver 
from  the  hook. 

Meanwhile  I  looked  over  the  pictures  which  hung  about 
his  private  office.  Apparently  he  was  a  person  of  low 
artistic  tastes,  for  the  "Yard  of  Pansies,"  a  ship  with  all 
sails  set,  at  anchor  in  a  quiet  harbor,  and  other  gems  of 
which  I  strongly  disapprove,  were  among  his  collection. 

"Alas!  how  some  waste  their  substance!"  thought  I, 
sadly,  reflecting  on  my  own  intimate  knowledge  of  Art. 
But  he  had  opened  the  door. 

"I  wish  to  see  this  man  in  person,"  he  remarked,  "and 
if  it  is  as  you  state  we  will  give  him  the  money,  for  which 
he  signs  a  release  of  all  claim  upon  us." 

"Come  with  me  now,  then,"  I  suggested,  and  we  went 
out  together. 


"I'm  always  going  to  feel  sorry  for  conductors  now," 
observed  Pinafore  later,  putting  away  his  share  of  the 
street  railway  company's  yellow  backs.  "They  ain't  got 
it  so  easy.  I  had  the  hard  part  of  this  job." 

"What  about  me  landin'  on  me  nut?"  demanded  Bar- 
ney, "an'  the  doctor  reallv  made  me  feel  sick,  tellin'  all 
the  things  ailed  me.  'Twas  me  done  the  most." 

I  merely  smiled  at  them  both.  I  knew  whose  brain 
had  done  the  trick. 


The    Lead    Dollar. 

PINAFORE  DANNY  and  I  sat  in  the  back  room  of  Bar- 
ney Gallagher's  saloon  on  Sixth  avenue.  Barney  was 
relating  with  disgust  the  story  of  Big  Jim  Tracy's  rise 
to  affluence. 

"He  was  the  cheapest  crook  that  ever  came  down  the 
pike,"  said  Barney,  "and  the  gang  chased  him  out.  This 
was  last  year,  when  you  guys  were  over  in  Paris  with 
Frank  Tarbox  and  the  Red  Swede's  push." 

"And  he's  there  with  a  bundle  of  loose  change  now?" 
I  inquired.  "What  was  his  lay?" 

"That's  what  makes  me  tired,"  replied  Barney.  "He 
didn't  have  no  lay,  and  one  day  Pretty  Willie  from 
Frisco  was  standin'  out  in  front  of  Kid  McCoy's,  and 
along  comes  Tracy  lookin'  to  cadge  .two-bits,  as  usual. 
The  mob  gets  to  kiddin'  him,  an'  Pretty  Willie  asks, 
'Why  don't  Tracy  take  to  robbin'  the  kids  of  the  milk 
money  and  their  pennies  for  candy?'  Willie  says  that's 
the  kind  of  a  grafter  Tracy  is,  and  he  ain't  even  liable  to 
win  out  then,  and  Tracy  says  it's  a  swell  idee,  at  that !" 

"Such  low  class  bungling  idiots  are  the  cause  of  the 
gradual  decline  of  our  profession,"  I  remarked,  sadly. 
"And  did  he  seriously  contemplate  going  into  the  infan- 
tile hold-upline?" 

"He  did,  and  he  done  it,  too,"  said  Barney,  whose  lan- 
guage is  none  too  scholarly.  "And  he  cops  out  a  round 
four  thousand,  while  good  guys  is  up  agin  it'  cause  things 
is  on  the  bum." 

"Too  much  money,"  said  Pinafore  laughingly.  "Six 
bucks  in  dimes  is  enough  at  a  time  for  a  dub  like  that. 
Has  he  blowed  the  town?" 

"He's  out  in  the  bar  now,"  answered  Barney;  "and 
220 


THE  LEAD  DOLLAR. 

buying  beer,  you  bet !  Them  kind  is  satisfied  with  a  four- 
dollar  souse,  where  you  and  the  Duke  here'd  buy  a  quart 
with  your  last  five  and  throw  the  waiter  the  change." 
Barney's  admiration  for  us  is  unbounded,  and  we  merit 
it,  for  when  we  steal  we  do  so  like  gentlemen  and  spend 
the  takings  royally  afterward.  No  hiding  in  stuffy  East 
Side  joints,  bragging  of  our  exploits,  for  Pinafore  and 
myself ! 

The  Waldorf  Roof  for  ours  in  company  with  our  best 
people,  the  only  difference  between  us  being  that  our  ap- 
pearance is  frequently  even  more  respectable  and  pleasing 
than  theirs.  My  gray  hair  and  smooth  face  above  my 
evening  clothes  give  an  air  of  distinction  to  our  party  of 
two,  while  Pinafore,  the  young  rascal,  looks  like  an  ath- 
letic young  collegian  out  with  his  governor  to  see  what's 
doing. 

We  feel  silent,  listening  to  the  loud  talk  out  at  the  bar. 
I  got  up,  and  over  the  low,  swinging  door  I  took  a  peep 
at  the  valiant  Tracy,  who  thieved  from  babies.  He  was 
waving  aloft  a  railroad  ticket.  "To-morrow  night  me  off 
for  Frisco,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  stein  of  beer;  "and  I 
won't  ride  the  trucks  like  the  last  time  the  bulls  gimme 
the  office  to  quit  this  man's  burg,  neither !  Drink  hearty, 
boys.  It's  easy  come,  easy  go,  with  me !  I  spend  my  coin 
free,  but  no  son  of  a  gun  kin  git  the  best  of  Jim  Tracy, 
see?" 

"Here's  luck!"  chorused  the  gang  of  loungers,  glad 
to  drink  with  any  lush  who  felt  like  buying.  Tracy 
named  the  road  and  the  train  he  was  leaving  on  next 
day. 

It  was  dull  in  New  York  for  us.  Bob  Pinkerton  and 
the  lynx-eyed  Seymour  Butler  were  far  too  attentive 
when  Pinafore  and  I  visited  the  racetracks,  and  neither 
Dick  Canfield  nor  "Honest  John"  Kelly  had  issued  us 
a  pressing  invitation  to  bring  down  a  live  one  and 
assist  the  house  to  make  expenses.  I  turned  around. 
"Pinafore!5  I  called  softly. 

He  came  and  stood  beside  me.    "Pipe  this  lobster, 


Kid,"  I  said.  "I  want  you  to  remember  him.  Perhaps 
we'll  turn  a  trick." 

"I  couldn't  forget  that  map,  Duke,"  said  Pinafore. 
"And  now  let's  toddle  down  to  Waxey's  and  play  a 
little  bank.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Good  enough,"  I  responded.  "Well,  Barney,  so 
long.  Maybe  you  won't  see  us  for  a  couple  of  days. 
We're  going  West."  Pinafore  glanced  at  me  quickly, 
then  he  grinned  understandingly. 

"Well,  you  kin  have  the  ridin'  in  dusty  cars  this 
weather,"  remarked  Barney.  "I'll  drink  mineral  and 
get  near  the  electric  fan.  Say,  you  been  restin'  two 
weeks,  you  know  it?  Pretty  soft,  with  your  kick  full 
of  centuries  and  takin'  it  easy." 

"Then  it's  time  we  got  busy,"  said  I,  carelessly, 
and  we  went  out. 


The  elderly  Southerner,  with  the  flowing  bow  tie 
and  a  shine  suit  which  needed  pressing,  sitting  alone 
in  the  Pullman,  fanned  himself  with  his  wide-brimmed 
black  felt  hat.  He  pulled  (but  carefully,  for  it  wasn't 
a  regular  one — only  a  volunteer)  at  his  pointed  gray 
mustache,  took  up  a  paper  and  laid  it  down  again, 
then  sighed  impatiently.  He  looked  at  the  man  in  the 
opposite  seat,  who  was  watching  him.  "A  wahm  day, 
sah,"  he  observed.  "Ah  was  wishin'  foh  a  cool  julep 
and  a  breeze." 

Big  Jim  Tracy,  off  for  Frisco,  felt  in  his  bones  that 
here  was  an  old  sucker  ripe  for  trimming,  and  as  un- 
suspecting a  yap  as  one  could  wish  to  find.  He 
hitched  along  to  the  end  of  his  seat  and  cordially 
agreed  that  it  was  too  hot  for  any  use.  He  also  sug- 
gested that  he  had  a  bottle  in  his  grip,  and  while  it 
wasn't  Bourbon,  it  was  mighty  good  rye.  (The  fellow 
was  not  even  a  judge  of  liquor,  evidently,  for  Barney 
Gallagher's  whisky  is  celebrated  among  our  set  as  the 
worst  in  town.) 

The  elderly  man  suggested  that  they  repair  to  the 

222 


THE  LEAD  DOLLAR. 

smoking  compartment  at  the  other  end  and  sample 
his  bottle,  too.  The  porter,  answering  the  bell,  brought 
a  quart  of  mineral  water,  and  over  a  friendly  highball 
Major  Shannon,  from  Bowling  Green,  Ky.,  introduced 
himself,  receiving  gravely  in  return  his  companion's 
assurance  that  the  latter  was  Henry  B.  Martin,  con- 
tractor, of  Chicago,  on  his  way  home  and  with  money 
in  the  bank. 

Later,  after  they  had  smoked  and  chatted  about  the 
situation  in  Russia  and  upon  various  topics,  the  major 
told  a  funny  story  of  a  euchre  party  down  home. 
They  got  into  an  amiable  discussion  of  cards,  and  the 
major  declared  it  made  him  feel  like  playing  his  favor- 
ite game  of  euchre  now,  by  Gad.  The  porter,  ap- 
pealed to,  brought  a  pack  of  cards  and  put  up  a  table. 

The  major  said  let's  bet  any  old  thing  to  give  the 
thing  interest,  so  they  started  at  a  dime  a  game.  The 
major  kept  getting  good  poker  hands  and  wished  audi- 
bly that  this  was  freezeout,  but  then  a  man  wouldn't 
get  fours,  of  course,  if  he  had  any  use  for  'em. 

It  was  Mr.  Martin  who  dared  the  major  to  switch 
to  poker  and  see  if  he'd  get  any  more  hands  like  he'd 
been  holding. 

"I'll  do  it,  sah,"  said  the  major,  cheerfully,  "and  bet 
yo'  all  a  dollah  a  hand  foh  all  the  cold  hands  yo'  feel 
like  dealin',  sah !  A  Kaintuckian  won't  take  a  dare, 
sah !" 

"Suits  me !"  cried  Mr.  Martin  gayly.  "We  git  a  draw, 
Is'pose?" 

"We  do,  sah/  said  the  major,  courteously  sliding 
the  pack  across  the  table.  "Discard,  and  draw  cahds. 
Hush;  mah  year  is  burnin',  an'  with  me  it  means  Ahm 
goin'  tuh  win  money.  Look  out  'foh  me  now." 

He  was  a  jolly  soul,  was  the  major,  chuckling  as 
he  watched  Mr.  Martin,  who,  with  a  somewhat  clum- 
sily assumed  air  of  awkwardness,  riffled  the  pack  and 
dealt.  But  the  Major's  ear  had  burnt  in  vain  He 

223 


lost  hand  after  hand,  until  Mr.  Martin  had  stowed 
away  $32  of  his  money. 

"Where's  your  ante?"  demanded  Mr.  Martin  play- 
fully, and  for  reply  the  Major  threw  down  a  coin  the 
size  of  a  silver  dollar,  which  fell  with  a  dull,  leaden 
sound.  Mr.  Martin  laughed,  as  the  major  said,  pleas- 
antly, "Mah  money's  up." 

"What,  that?"  asked  Mr.  Martin,  derisively.  "I 
guess  that  cartwheel  ain't  good  enough  for  your  Uncle 
Dudley.  That's  the  punkest  piece  of  queer  I  ever 
saw." 

"Queer?"  shouted  the  major,  angrily.  "  'Tis,  is  it? 
It's  good  enough  tuh  come  out  of  the  U.  S.  mint,  sah, 
that's  how  queer  it  is !" 

"Do  I  look  foolish?"  demanded  Mr.  Martin,  con- 
temptuously, picking  up  the  coin  and  dropping  it 
again.  "Wouldn't  deceive  a  baby!"  he  added. 

"Well,  I've  got  $1,400  I  just  made  in  Wall  Street 
that  says  it's  GOOD !"  roared  the  major,  excitedly. 
"I'll  leave  it  tuh  the  conductah,  and  take  his  decision 
as  final !  If  yo'  feel  spohty,  yo'  all  covah  mah  money, 
sah,  and  we'll  see !  Ah'm  a  Suthen  gentleman,  and 
not  used  tuh  havin'  mah  statements  doubted,  nor  tuh 
bein'  called  a  counterfeitah,  sah !"  He  paused  for 
breath  and  glared  at  Mr.  Martin. 

It  was  almost  a  shame  to  take  the  money,  reflected 
this  person,  but,  then,  being  used  to  prying  open 
childish  knuckles  in  search  of  easy  plunder,  he  hailed 
his  juicy  jay  as  the  one  best  bet  of  a  good  afternoon. 
And  what  luck!  Didn't  he  have  twice  $1,400,  and 
more,  cached  securely  inside  his  dollar-silk  undershirt, 
in  a  chamois  bag?  No  slick  worker  would  slip  a 
hand  into  his  pockets  and  bring  it  forth  with  money 
in  it,  for  the  masquerading  Mr.  Martin  had  felt  the 
bite  of  poverty  for  many  tough  years,  before  the  milk 
and  candy  graft  had  laid  the  foundation  of  his  present 
prosperity.  He  took  no  chances,  and  surely  no  one 
could  call  betting  that  a  punk  leaden  dollar  was  but 
lead,  taking  a  chance. 

224 


THE  LEAD  DOLLAR. 

"I'm  with  you,  pal,"  said  he  promptly,  and  dug  for 
his  bankroll.  The  interested  porter  found  the  con- 
ductor, who  gazed  with  awe  at  the  two  piles  of  yel- 
lowbacks, with  the  disreputable  dollar  between  them. 
The  face  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  was  but  a  smudge, 
and  the  outer  rim  was  dented  as  no  decent  dollar 
should  be.  It  was  a  most  woeful  and  ratty  dollar, 
and  the  conductor  smiled  and  so  did  the  porter  when 
the  maior  had  invited  him  to  hold  the  stakes  and  de- 
cide the  bet. 

"Is  it  a  good  silver  dollar?"  repeated  the  conductor 
after  Mr.  Martin  had  clearly  explained  the  conditions, 
"well,  I  wouldn't  want  to  say;  I  ain't  an  expert." 

"Would  you  take  it  if  offered  for  fare?"  insisted  the 
major. 

"I  certainly  would  not,  gentlemen !"  replied  the  con- 
ductor emphatically,  eyeing  the  dollar  with  disfavor. 

Mr.  Martin  smiled  a  most  superior  smile  and 
reached  for  the  stakes. 

"I  win ;  there  ain't  no  doubt  of  that !"  he  announced 
gleefully.  He  was  breathing  hard,  too,  for  coin  in  big 
chunks  was  a  new  sensation,  but  a  delightful  one. 

"Stop !"  commanded  the  major,  as  the  conductor 
made  a  move  to  pay  off  into  Mr.  Martin's  eager  hands. 
"I  guess  I  cop,  this  time.  I  bet  this  is  a  good  silver 
dollar,  he  bet  it  wasn't,  and  if  it  ain't  I'll  swallow  it 
whole  and  ten  more  like  it,"  whereupon  he  inserted 
the  point  of  a  penknife  into  the  center  of  the  dollar. 
Off  came  the  covering  of  silver  foil  which  I,  "Duke" 
Merrill,  had,  by  my  own  original  process,  pressed 
upon  it  until  only  the  most  careful  scrutiny  would 
reveal  the  fact  that  it  was  not,  as  it  seemed  a  very 
poorly  constructed  counterfeit.  The  silver  foil  dulled 
its  ring. 

"You  take  the  purse,"  said  the  conductor,  drawing 
a  long  breath  of  wonder,  "and  you  ought  to  get  a 
medal  with  it,  too."  He  gave  me  the  money.  Mr. 
Martin  said  nothing,  and  the  conductor  and  porter 
faded  away. 

225 


THE  LEAD  DOLLAR. 

"It  really  wasn't  you  I  was  out  for,  pal,"  said  I 
kindly,  dropping  my  Southern  accent,  which  caused 
"Mr.  Martin"  to  look  up  in  astonishment.  "I  ex- 
pected to  land  a  mark  from  Philadelphia,  who'll  board 
this  sleeper  at  the  next  stop.  He's  got  a  lot  of  coin, 
and  he'll  fall  for  anything.  But  I've  got  mine,  and 
I'm  satisfied,  though  I  didn't  expect  it  from  you.  Now, 
here's  what  I'll  do  to  give  you  a  chance  to  break 
even." 

"What?"  he  queried,  listlessly.  The  blow  had 
stunned  him. 

"Well,  you  hand  back  that  $32  you  won  from  me, 
and  I'll  give  you  a  dollar  framed  up  as  this  one  was, 
and  you  can  trim  the  other  chap."  He  came  to  life 
suddenly,  produced  the  $32,  and  I  gave  him  a  dollar, 
treated  apparently  like  the  first,  which  cheered  him 
considerably. 

"And  I'll  get  off  here,  just  so  if  the  conductor  should 
decide  to  butt  in  and  get  fresh  I'll  be  absent,"  I  con- 
tinued. "By  by,  and  good  luck." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  rather  forlornly.  "I  never 
thought  I'd  be  the  fall  guy  for  such  raw  work  as  this." 

Raw  work !  And  that  was  this  clod's  tribute  to  my 
wonderful  mind !  I  was  doubly  glad  I  had  his  money. 
I  had  previously  described  the  man  who  would  get 
on ;  big  and  tall,  with  a  black  mustache,  wearing  an 
imitation  Panama  hat,  a  blue  serge  suit  and  carrying 
a  "telescope." 

I  enjoyed  a  restful  sleep  that  night  as  another  train 
took  me  back  towards  Broadway.  Pinafore  got  in 
the  next  night,  and  when  he  had  taken  a  tub  at  our 
rooms  uptown,  assumed  a  bathrobe  and  had  ordered 
dinner  served  upstairs,  over  the  'phone,  we  counted  up. 

"It  wasn't  ten  minutes  until  he  butted  in,"  said 
Pinafore,  grinning  at  the  thought,  "and  in  thirty  more 
we  were  in  the  smoke  room.  He  was  so  crazy  to  get 
action  that  he  couldn't  wait.  A  sucker  wouldn't  have 
bit  in  a  million  years,  the  way  he  began  on  me,  but  I 
acted  as  daffy  as  he  did,  and  we  made  the  bet,  all 

226 


THE  LEAD  DOLLAR. 

right,  with  the  new  conductor,  who  was  just  starting 
his  run,  holding  the  coin.  Tracy  didn't  even  hold  out 
breakfast  money,  Duke.  He  bet  $1,700;  and  I  guess 
he  was  all  in.  You  gave  me  $2,000  to  work  with,  so 
I  had  plenty  if  he'd  raised  it. 

"It  was  rich  to  see  that  slob's  map  after  the  show- 
down, and  he  begins  pickin'  at  the  dollar  with  his 
knife  and  finally  picks  a  hole  in  it,  and  finds  she's 
LEAD  clear  through.  He's  put  a  curse  on  us,  I  guess, 
all  right.  He  was  hollerin'  like  mad  when  I  got  off 
with  his  coin.  You're  a  wonder,  Duke." 

"Thanks,  lad,"  I  replied,  modestly.  "I  hope  you 
didn't  allow  your  natural  pride  to  overcome  discretion 
and  let  that  ass  know  who  we  are?" 

Pinafore  assured  me  that  he  had  merely  bade  "Mr. 
Martin"  adios  and  left  him  to  a  happy  session  with  his 
thoughts. 


Mr.  De  Shine  Wins  Out. 

THE  TENOR — Pass  the  bread  again.  Is  the  Coney 
Island  Quartette  stoppin'  here? 

THE  LANDLADY— They  suttenly  are,  Mista 
Lickenboozer,  an'  they're  four  grand  gents.  What 
kin  I  help  yuh  to,  Maizie? 

MAIZIE  (does  a  disrobing  act  on  the  bounding 
wire) — Is  they  any  chanct  of  me  gettin'  some  toast? 
A  guy  in  a  box  durin'  my  act  kep'  wavin'  a  handker- 
chiff  at  me  tuhday  mat'nee  an'  come  pretty  near  put- 
tin'  me  on  the  blink  fur  fair.  My  nerves  is  just 
jumpin'. 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy,  g'wan  out  an'  tell  the 
cook  I  said  tuh  make  Maizie  some  toast.  An',  listen 
c'mere !  Ef  any  one  else  wants  any  they  kin  have  it. 
We  gotta  git  rid  of  all  that  stale  bread,  an'  this  way 
they  think  they're  gettin'  a  favor  did  'em. 

THE  TENOR — Pass  the  bread  again. z  You  know 
them  four  guys  stole  our  hull  act,  but  a  knock's  a 
boost  in  their  case.  Our  bookin'  speaks  fur  itself. 
Time  all  filled  fur  two  weeks  ahead.  That's  the  kind 
of  people  we  are. 

THE  BAND  LEADER  (in  a  low  tone)— Good 
evenin',  Bill ;  say,  set  between  me  and  this  dope,  will 
you?  I  get  so  sick  of  hearing  folks'  troubles  I'm 
losing  my  appetite. 

CHARLIE  ZILIFONE  (of  the  Twelve  Musical 
Zilifones) — Yes,  it's  awful.  I  get  so  sick  of  perform- 
ers I  could  go  and  die,  the  way  I  feel.  I  was  hopin' 
to  get  home  Christmas,  but  we  had  three  clubs  'round 
Noo  York  and  that'll  make  out  our  salary,  and  there 
it  is.  Well,  we  follered  Lillian  Bussell  on  the  bill  on 

228 


MR.  DE  SHINE  WINS  OUT 

the  Poli  circuit  an'  done  great  every  show.  Closed  the 
show  last  week  and  was  a  terrible  hit,  though  a  sing- 
ing act  was  just  before  us.  I  says  to  Freddie  Proctor, 
I  says,  you  tell  your  paw 

THE  BAND  LEADER  (wearily)— Yes,  yes,  YES ! 
I'm  glad  you're  glad !  Gimme  a  doughnut  there,  Susy. 

THE  LANDLADY— Lawsy  me,  don't  say  "dough- 
nuts." I  kin  jest  see  Murphy  &•  Willard.  Oh,  I  think 
they're  the  funniest  team.  Did  yunno  Jim  was  onct 
in  the  circus  business? 

THE  BUCK  DANCER— Well,  I  see  by  the  paper 
how  one  of  them  swell  dames  on  Fifth  avenoo  fit  with 
her  paw  because  she  et  lunch  in  the  parlor,  an'  he 
says  she's  blowed  in  eighty  thousand  a  year  of  his 
dough.  Gee ! 

THE  DUTCH  COMEDIAN— I  wonder  if  they's 
really  that  much  coin  on  earth?  What  d'you  s'pose 
them  people  eat,  now?  I  expect  it's  champagne  fur 
breakfast  and  terrapin  fur  theirs. 

THE  SOUBRETTE — Them  folks  eat  same  as  us. 
I  guess  I  ought  tuh  know,  too,  'cause  when  I  was 
with  Loo  Fields  didn't  I  have  a  fella  whose  paw  had 
nothin'  but?  Only  Willie  was  a  dretful  lush,  I  might 
a  been  livin'  up  among  the  hoi  polloi  now. 

THE  INGENUE— Yuh  mean  the  cream  de  mint, 
Birdie! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Them  uppity  fairies  run 
fur  the  end  book.  Ef  I  was  pickin'  out  a  gal,  I'd  take 
the  kind  what  kin  make  a  home  fur  a  guy.  That 
there  dame  you're  talkin'  about  needs  a  lickin'. 

THE  LANDLADY— Oh,  yes,  yuh  men  thinks  all 
us  gells  gotta  do  is  tuh  cater  tuh  some  fella.  De 
Shine  tride  them  idees  on  me,  but  he  didn't  have  no 
luck. 

THE  BUCK  DANCER— Say,  Miss  De  Shine,  I 
seen  a  man  outside  who  looks  jest  like  your  old  man. 
He  was  lookin'  in  the  front  parlor  winder. 

THE  INGENUE  (in  girlish  confusion)— An'  me 
229 


MR.  DE  SHINE  WINS  OUT. 

gettin'  dressed  in  there!    Oh,  my  grief!     I  bet  yuh 
anything  he  seen  me! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— It's  a  pipe  he  never  took 
more'n  one  flash.  She's  safe.  They  won't  nobody 
steal  that  one. 

A  GRUFF  VOICE  (from  the  hall)—  Where  is 
she?  Lemme  in,  d'ye  hear? 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy,  g'wan  an'  throw  out 
whoever's  a  makin'  that  row! 

THE  SLAVEY— Mebbe  it's  Mister  De  Shine? 

THE  LANDLADY— What,  that  old  mutt?  I'd 
like  to  ketch  him  in  my  house!  It'd  be  a  sick  day 
fur  him ! 

THE  SOUBRETTE  (as  the  door  bursts  open  and 
a  large,  noisy  party,  with  a  bundle,  appears) — It  is 
De  Shine! 

MR.  DE  SHINE — Hey,  Maggie!  whadjer  mean  by 
try  in'  tuh  keep  me  out  of  my  house? 

THE  LANDLADY  (uneasily)— Now,  Mike,  don't 
make  no  scene !  Can't  yuh  see  these  here  ladies  an'  gents 
eatin'  their  supper? 

MR.  DE  SHINE  (bellowing)— I'll  throw  the  hull 
bunch  out!  Git  outa  here,  all  of  ,you!  Whichun 
ain't  paid  their  board  ? 

THE  INGENUE — Mista  Johnson,  ef  yer  a  man 
yuh'll  hit  this  drunken  beast  a  wallop  in  the  eye! 
Can't  yuh  pertect  us  wimmen? 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (been  there  before)— I 
don't  want  to  interfere  bechune  man  and  wife. 

ALL  THE  LADIES— Coward! 

THE  BUCK  DANCER— I  think  somebody  called 
me  from  the  kitchen.  Goodnight.  (He  disappears 
hastily.) 

MR.  DE  SHINE— Hey,  shell  out  your  board !  I'm 
the  boss  here.  Take  that!  (He  swats  his  wife  on 
the  ear.) 

THE  LANDLADY— Help !  Help!  Assistance!  He'll 
kill  me! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (stung  to  action)— Hey! 
230 


MR.  DE  SHINE  WINS  OUT. 

Leggo  her,  you  loafer!  Pick  on  a  man!  Hit  me, 
you  big  slob!  Come  on,  try  it!  (He  hurls  himself 
at  the  angered  De  Shine.)  There!  I'll'  knock  the 
face  offer  you,  too!  (Hits  him  again.) 

THE  LANDLADY  (landing  on  her  defender  with 
a  plate  of  beans)— r-Dontchu  dare  tuh  touch  my  hus- 
band! Leave  the  house,  yuh  fiend  in  human  form! 
Here,  Mike,  did  he  hurt  yuh? 

MR.  DE  SHINE— Wow-wow-wow! 

EVERYBODY— Come  on;  let's  vamp! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— I  told  you  I  didn't  want 
to  butt  in!  Oh,  my  nut! 


Injun    Billy's    Blonde. 

INJUN  BILLY  and  his  pard,  "Old  Martin,"  from  Crip- 
ple, camped  on  the  South  Fork  of  Monumental  Creek 
in  the  last  light  of  a  July  day.  They  were  in  Thunder 
Mountain  Mining  District,  Idaho,  bound  for  the  big 
camp  of  Roosevelt.  The  pack  horses  fed  along  the 
creek  bank,  all  but  Nellie,  the  bell  mare,  who  hung 
around  the  fire,  hoping  for  a  bit  of  dough,  her  favorite 
food. 

Injun  Billy  got  out  the  hobbles,  and,  because  Nellie 
liked  to  stray  away  from  camp,  he  side-hobbled  her, 
while  the  rest  only  needed  to  have  their  front  feet 
yoked. 

Martin  parboiled  the  bacon  and  sliced  off  a  chunk 
from  the  tender  leg  of  a  fawn.  They  had  potted  the 
infant  the  day  before,  because  there  wasn't  a  buck 
handy,  nor  a  game  warden  either,  at  a  point  over  100 
miles  from  a  wagon  road. 

"Fawn  is  mighty  good  eatin',"  observed  Martin, 
when  it  began  to  sizzle.  "Watch  this  here  while  I 
get  out  the  bread." 

"I  s'pose  we  got  to  be  bakin'  again  'long  'bout  to- 
morrow," said  Billy,  sadly.  "Seems  like  that  sour 
dough  bread  goes  awful  quick." 

Martin  searched  in  the  "kitchen"  alforjas  for  a  loaf. 
He  was  an  old  prospector  and  refused  to  eat  "baking 
powder  bread."  Instead  he  baked  his  own  in  their 
three  Dutch  ovens,  using  a  piece  of  dough  from  the 
last  baking  as  yeast.  He  found  a  calendar  and  stopped 
to  look  at  it. 

"Say,  listen  here!"  said  he.  "To-morrow's  the 
Fourth  of  July  1" 

232 


INJUN  BILLY'S  BLONDE. 

"Honest,  is  it?"  asked  Billy.  "Don't  seem  like  it; 
it's  so  blame  cold.  What'll  we  do  'bout  it?" 

"Well,  I  figger  the  camp's  around  eight  miles  up 
the  trail,  from  our  map,"  said  Martin.  "Let's  make 
an  early  start.  May  be  the  boys'll  be  doing  sumpin' 
to  celebrate." 

At  3  A.  M.  it  began  to  snow.  Injun  Billy  found  it 
out  because  his  dog  awakened  him  trying  to  get  under 
the  blankets.  They  had  thrown  their  tent  down  and 
were  sleeping  on,  instead  of  under,  it  with  a  canvas 
"manta"  over  the  blankets. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sport?"  muttered  Billy. 
"Snow !"  he  went  on,  sleepily,  feeling  it  on  his  face, 
"and  on  Fourth  of  July." 

It  struck  him  as  a  joke,  so  he  poked  at  Martin  until 
the  latter  swore  and  opened  his  eyes.  They  pulled 
the  pack  cover  a  little  further  over  their  faces  and 
went  to  sleep  again.  At  6  they  were  up,  making  ready 
to  break  camp.  The  snow  was  coming  down  fast,  but 
the  air  was  mild  and  pleasant. 

"Hike  1"  shouted  Billy,  an  hour  later,  and  the  outfit 
started.  One  buckskin  horse  was  packed  with  canned 
butter,  another  with  jams,  tea  and  coffee.  This  had 
been  Martin's  thought.  Luxuries  would  be  eagerly 
bought  in  the  camp.  A  mile  up  the  trail  they  came  to 
another  outfit  packing  up.  Together  the  parties  pro- 
ceeded, Billy  on  the  bell  mare  ahead  and  one  of  the 
strangers  at  the  rear  of  all  the  packs. 

It  was  noon  before  they  had  climbed  the  last  steep, 
slide-rock-covered  hill,  and  ridden  through  snow- 
laden,  burnt  timber  into  Roosevelt.  A  celebration  was 
in  progress,  with  everybody  in  camp  taking  part. 
Dozens  of  men  greeted  the  strangers,  while  others 
poured  out  of  "Ernest's"  tent  restaurant,  eager  to  greet 
a  pack  train  from  "United  States."  The  mail  carrier 
had  just  galloped  in  over  the  Bear  Valley  trail,  from 
the  other  direction,  with  letters. 

There  was  four  inches  of  snow  on  the  ground.  In 
front  of  the  Monongahela  House,  an  imposing  palace 

233 


INJUN  BILLY'S  BLONDE. 

of  canvas  set  on  a  log  frame,  Tonopah  Smith  and  Buck 
Johnson,  the  camp's  bad  man,  were  snowballing  each 
other.  Tonopah  was  an  elderly  gent,  and  he  had  a 
souse  which  he  proudly  declared  had  cost  him  $40.  In 
the  Olympic  tent  saloon  a  gramophone  barked  out 
"Florodora."  A  buxom  lady  named  Klondike  Kate 
was  tending  bar  inside.  The  newcomers  hustled  to 
find  a  camping  place  near  the  creek,  turned  their  horses 
out  upon  one  side  of  the  bare  and  narrow  canyon 
and  prepared  by  getting  shaved. 

There  was  a  barber,  and  he  had  set  up  a  painted  pole 
in  front  of  his  tent.  In  seven  minutes  Martin  sold 
their  butter  at  $3.50  a  can,  and  the  jams  at  as  high  a 
price,  so,  with  cash  in  their  pockets,  they  joyously  in- 
dulged in  a  real  shave.  Buck  came  along  as  they 
emerged. 

"I'm  drunk  and  dressed  up !"  he  chanted,  "an'  when- 
ever I  shout  sumpin'  drops !"  No  one  paid  any  atten- 
tion except  the  woman  from  the  Texas  oilfields,  who 
screamed.  She  was  a  modest  bottle  blonde,  with  curl- 
ing locks  under  a  sombrero,  a  sweater  and  knicker- 
bockers. The  camp's  collective  opinion  was  that  she 
had  escaped  from  a  burlesque  show,  but  she  had  "pop- 
per" with  her,  and  he  had  a  long  shotgun,  so  no  one 
said  much  out  loud. 

Injun  Billy  saw  her,  and  she  smiled  on  him,  for  he 
was  a  lithe,  dark  faced  youth,  rather  good  to  look  at. 
"Howdy,  ladv?"  said  he,  respectfully.  "Real  snowy, 
ain't  it?" 

"Ya'as,  Ah  agree  with  you,"  she  said.  Some  one 
called  Billy.  It  was  the  barkeep  of  Thompson's. 
"Pardy,"  said,  he  earnestly,  "take  a  friend's  advice. 
Her  pap  is  goin'  to  marry  that  skirt  to  some  guy  or 
kill  'em.  See?  An'  you  can't  blame  him  for  wantin' 
to  lose  her,  'cause  she  sure  is  daffy." 

Billy  looked  at  the  barkeep  sourly.  "He's  sore  on 
account  of  her  talkin'  to  me,"  he  thought;  "that's 
what." 

He  returned  to  Miss  Rice,  who  waited,  seated  upon 

234 


INJUN  BILLY'S  BLONDE. 

a  log.  Martin  was  playing  stud  with  three  old  pals 
from  Salt  Lake.  The  remaining  citizens  of  Roosevelt 
were  ceremoniously  hauling  a  flag  about  three  inches 
square  to  the  top  of  a  small  pole,  cheering  loudly. 

Thunder  Mountain  Brown,  a  lanky  prospector,  was 
very  drunk.  He  silently  stole  up  behind  Billy  and  his 
fair  charmer,  the  snow  assisting  him  to  a  noiseless 
approach,  with  an  open  jackknife  in  one  hand.  Mur- 
der was  not  his  aim.  Instead,  he  grabbed  a  blonde 
curl  unsteadily,  intending  to  saw  it  from  the  screech- 
ing owner's  head.  Brave  Billy  leaped  to  his  feet. 
With  the  butt  of  his  .44  he  beat  Mr.  Brown  furiously 
upon  the  head. 

"This  way,  fellers !  To  the  rescue !"  yelled  the  bad 
man,  who  was  really  not  at  all  vicious,  and  a  gallant 
souled  little  person.  He  was  permitted  to  feel  as  tough 
as  he  liked,  as  long  as  he  shot  no  one  and  spent  his 
money.  But  Brown  was  down  and  out.  Billy  led  the 
agitated  lady  away,  while  the  gang  snickered,  and  a 
brutal  blanket  seller  snapped  a  camera,  because  the 
hind  view  of  the  tight-trousered  lady  was  well  worth 
preserving. 

Billy's  was  a  record  breaking  romance.  Miss  Rice 
had  him  roped  and  tied  by  supper  time.  He  ate  at  her 
camp,  talked  to  popper,  who  kindly  showed  the  strick- 
en one  his  .30  rifle,  also  his  shotgun,  and  later  she 
played  on  her  mandolin  in  the  light  of  the  campfire. 
It  was  a  little  wet  from  melting  snow  around  them, 
but  with  a  saddle  blanket  spread  out  to  sit  on  it  wasn't 
bad. 

Martin  got  to  their  tent  in  the  early  dawn.  He  had 
won  a  pocketful  of  gold,  had  the  blanket  seller's  check 
for  fifty  and  there  was  still  money  due  him.  Billy  was 
awake.  He  confided  his  feelings  to  Martin,  who 
laughed  until  he  choked. 

"What,  that  old  battleaxe?"  said  he.  "I  bet  she  seen 
Dawson  settled,  son,  an'  could  savvy  the  beach  at 
Nome  in  the  dark.  She's  bridle  wise,  all  right,  an'  as 
fur  the  old  man  an'  his  gun,  if  he  goes  holdin'  you  up, 

235 


INJUN  BILLY'S  BLONDE. 

I'll  make  him  swaller  the  gun !"    Billy  was  hurt. 

"That  ain't  right,"  he  rebuked.  "She  told  me  her- 
self she's  just  17.  She  couldn't  'a'  been  there.  And 
her  hair!  It's  beautiful." 

"I  hope  she  don't  run  out  of  peroxide,"  said  Martin, 
with  a  chuckle.  "You  cut  her  out.  Listen  to  me,  kid." 
Billy  declined  to  answer. 

Roosevelt  was  still  gay  on  the  fifth.  A  pack  train 
loaded  with  liquor  had  just  come  in,  and  Roosevelt 
appeared  to  be  anxious  to  drink  the  contents  imme- 
diately. Billy  had  spent  the  entire  day  at  Miss  Rice's 
side.  He  had  basely  left  Martin  to  cook  and  eat  alone, 
hunt  the  horses  and  other  duties,  while  he  chopped 
wood  for  the  blond  lady.  He  even  presented  her  with 
the  last  leg  of  the  fawn.  Martin  had  to  eat  bacon. 

At  six-thirty  it  was  dark.  Roosevelt  burned  candles 
recklessly,  for  soon  the  days  would  lengthen  and  the 
next  train  in  would  bring  candles.  Finally  Billy  broke 
away  from  the  Rice  camp,  and,  dreaming  of  his  love, 
he  got  on  his  cayuse,  which  Martin  had  brought  down 
from  the  hill,  because  they  were  to  go  prospecting  up 
Cottonwood  Creek  next  day.  He  rode  "downtown." 

It  was  dark,  but  there  were  lively  times  going  on. 
"Doc"  Pike  had  just  been  induced  to  come  up  out 
of  the  creek,  in  which  he  had  been  walking,  because 
he  said  he  wouldn't  cross  until  he  found  the  footlog. 
Several  friends  were  rolling  Doc  in  the  trail  to  pre- 
vent his  taking  cold  from  being  wet.  It  was  Buck, 
the  bad  man,  wTio  organized  a  riding  party.  All  the 
horses  then  in  camp  were  saddled,  and  up  the  trail 
rode  the  crowd,  yelling  and  shooting. 

The  creek  zigzagged  through  the  canyon,  and  one 
must  cross  several  times  to  get  from  end  to  end.  They 
splashed  through,  clattering  up  the  banks,  over  down 
timber  and  in  among  the  trees  in  which  was  the  Price 
camp. 

Buck's  horse  galloped  over  some  prospector's  tin- 
ware, piled  by  his  fireplace.  As  the  wilder  element 

236 


INJUN  BILLY'S  BLONDE. 

tore  about  the  quieter  ones  got  up,  and  looked  out  of  their 
tents,  protesting  bitterly. 

Billy  was  with  the  invaders.  Suddenly  he  noted  that 
the  tent  of  the  Texas  lady  was  lighted.  The  shadow 
of  a  pair  of  stout  legs,  knickerbockered,  was  thrown  on 
the  canvas.  All  the  horsemen  saw  it,  and  being  very 
rowdy,  they  stopped,  giggling,  to  watch.  The  lady  in- 
side sat  down,  removing  her  boots.  She  stopped,  and 
only  the  upper  portion  of  her  figure  showed,  as  she 
removed  her  hat.  The  lovely  curling  hair  made  Billy 
sigh  rapturously. 

She  raised  her  arms  as  if  weary,  yawned  and  then — 
took  off  her  hair.  Off  it  came,  that  handsome  blonde 
wig.  She  undid  a  tiny  knot  of  rat-taily  hair,  pinned  it 
to  her  head,  reached  for  a  garment,  evidently  a 
"nightie,"  and  blew  out  the  candle.  Too  shocked  to 
speak  Billy  rode  slowly  back. 

He  was  helping  Martin  cook  breakfast  at  five  next 
morning.  "Say,  let's  go  on  over  to  Profile  Creek," 
said  he.  "It's  better  than  this.  Come  on,  will  you?" 

"What  you  want  to  go  for?"  asked  Martin,  curi- 
ously. "How's  blondie?" 

"Quit  that !"  cried  Billy,  miserably.  Then  he  whis- 
pered. "She  wears  a  wig!"  he  said,  raising  a  frying 
pan  with  a  shaking  hand. 

Martin  grinned.  "The  hull  camp  knowed  that," 
said  he. 


New   York   Arabian   Nights. 

The  Tour  of  Talma  Dalmah. 

IN  Habib's  kitchen  in  Washington  street  it  was 
warm  and  cheerful.  It  was  past  the  supper  hour,  and 
but  a  few  persons  were  left  in  his  cafe,  who  rattled 
the  dice  on  a  board,  and  chatter.  The  show  people 
were  in  from  a  long-  Winter  of  work  on  the  road,  and 
Habib's  favored  boarders  were  gathered  in  a  corner 
of  the  kitchen,  to  chat  in  friendly  fashion. 

Amena,  the  dancer,  voluptuous  and  giggling,  lolled 
on  the  big  couch  in  a  red  kimono.  The  fact  that 
Amena  had  blondined  her  once  black  hair,  and  that 
the  black  was  growing  out,  but  added  to  her  pictur- 
esque appearance.  Beside  her  sat  Lalla  Turquia,  from 
Morocco,  sloe-eyed,  black-haired  and  beautiful.  Lalla 
was  weary.  Three  days  sewing  on  costumes  for  her 
act,  which  opened  in  Boston  next  week,  and  feeding  up- 
on oil-soaked  food  and  cloying  sweets,  had  given  Lalla 
a  headache. 

Abdallah  Ben  Hamidi,  just  back  with  his  troupe  of 
acrobats  from  Yucatan,  was  visiting  with  an  American 
friend.  Amena  squealed  coyly  at  the  friend. 

"You  plees  scuse  me,"  said  she,  anxiously.  "Ori- 
ental womans  not  dress  mooch  in  house.  Ver'  slop." 

"Once  she  was  in  my  company,"  explained  Abdallah, 
"fine  gal,  but  fool  to  bleach  hair." 

"Kifhaleck!"  he  greeted.  Fat'ma,  black  and  laugh- 
ing, put  down  the  fork  with  which  she  stirred  her 
cooking  pots,  and  joyously  shook  Abdallah's  hand. 
From  the  Nile  had  Fat'ma  come,  to  the  fair  at  Chicago 
in  '0,3.  Now  she  cooks  in  the  cafe. 

"Well,  les'  all  have  something  to  dreenk,"  said 
238 


NEW  YORK  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Abdallah.  "Amena,  you  want  smoke?  I  bring  these 
cigarettes  from  Campeche.  You  try."  The  husband 
of  Lalla,  and  other  Arabians  and  Moors  joined  the 
circle. 

Yousouf,  Abdul,  Hassan,  Edouard — from  Algeria — 
partook  of  arrack,  and  Arabian  coffee  in  tiny  cups 
with  a  sprinkle  of  perfume  in  each.  Lalla  smoked  the 
narghile,  the  water  in  the  bowl  bubbling  furiously  as 
she  inhaled  the  smoke.  Amena  chose  whiskey,  with 
a  glass  of  grenadine  to  follow.  Fat'ma  brought  pis- 
tache  nuts,  and  almond  pastry,  cut  in  little  cubes. 

In  the  big  sink,  Fat'ma  washed  tablecloths,  showing 
her  white  teeth  in  a  merry  grin.  Her  running  mate, 
a  darkskinned  Syrian  woman,  bowed  her  head  in 
brief  prayer. 

"Catholics — ver'  relig,"  whispered  Lalla.  Then  the 
woman  ate  her  supper,  listening  to  the  talk,  while  Fat'ma 
the  washing  done,  washed  strings  of  okra  ready  for 
the  pot,  and  ladled  out  steaming  fingers  of  mutton  and 
rice,  wrapped  in  tender  grape  leaves.  "One  day  I  hear 
of  Mullah  AH/'  observed  Habib,  splitting  a  nut. 

Amena  grew  interested.  So  did  the  rest,  and  Habib 
told  the  tale  of  Mullah  AH  and  the  blonde.  "Mullah 
AH,  he  prett'  smart.  He  have  sideshows  with  cirque, 
and  one  day  a  womans  comes  long,  gets  fortune  told. 
Mullah  AH,  he  is  framed  up  for  thees  part ;  wear  turban 
an'  'Rabian  clos.'  Tells  womans  she  goin'  on  stage, 
rnak  beeg  hit.  Next  day  she  come  back,  'cause  he 
say  if  pay  dollare  more,  fin'  out  more. 

"She  give  hup  dollare,  an'  he  throw  the  bull  con 
strong. 

"Then  fin'  out  she  ees  beeg  fool,  but  have  hosban 
wid  mooch  coin.  Mullah  AH  go  talk  to  George  Jabor, 
who  tak'  out  show  one  time,  an'  he  say  "Gwan,  fin' 
out  if  she  got  mon'  on  the  levale.  If  so,  shaake  down 
plent'." 

"Then  Mullah  Ali's  wife  get  mad,  an'  say  no  will 
stand  for  him  fool  round  blonde  womans.  "Nup,"  she 
say,  "you  got  quit."  But  he  say  he  lof  only  her,  an' 

239 


NEW  YORK  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

blonde  womans  beeg  sucker.     Buy  beeg  fine  di'mond 
hearrings  for  wife,  an'  that  square  it. 

'"You  goin'  be  seenger,'  he  say  to  womans.  But  she 
can't  seeng,  she  say.  Mullah  Ali  say,  'I  feex  that. 
You  make  hup  for  Oriental  gal,  do  muscle  dance,  an' 
seeng  in  Arabic.  Then  peop'  not  know  you  can  no 
seeng;  theenk  it  Arabic  seeng."1 

"Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  Abdallah,  appreciatively.  "He 
smart !" 

"But  can't  mak'  her  get  next,"  went  on  Habib,  "so 
mak'  up  mind  what  to  do.  Him  an'  Yousouf  Romay 
goin'  tak*  her  to  Morocco,  an'  breeng  back.  Then 
she  know  plent'  about  country,  an'  be  Oriental  star. 
So  she  go  to  hosban'  who  name  is  Johnson,  an'  he 
geeve  hup  money.  Beeg  lot,  too.  They  change 
name  to  Dalma  Talmah,  that  sound  good  for  twelve- 
sheet." 

"I  remember!"  Edouard  broke  in,  "an"  she  write 
'about  bein'  captive  in  harem." 

"Wait,  I  know  that — don'  Mullah  write  these 
t'ing?"  said  Habib,  smiling.  "They  take  Dalma  Tal- 
mah to  Moiocco  an'  she  karn  quick.  Go  hin  mosque, 
steal  altar  covare,  an'  get  arrest.  When  she  been  in 
lockup  t'ree  days,  Mullah  Ali  give  gendarme  money, 
an'  she  get  out." 

"Ha!  Gendarme!  P'leece,  hey!"  ejaculated  Lalla, 
puffing  at  her  pipe. 

"They  buy  Moorish  clos'  an'  Talma  watch  how  wim- 
mens  dance,  an'  prett'  soon  Mullah  Ali  say  ready  to 
go  home.  Then  he  geeve  her  good  lickin',  so  she  can 
tell  'bout  horrors  in  Sultan's  harem  an'  describe  right. 
She  mak*  holler,  but  he  'splain  how  got  to  do,  or  no 
can  act  part  right. 

A't  las'  she  say  that's  right.  So  every  day  on  ship 
Yousouf  an'  Mullah  Ali  give  womans  damn  good 
lickin'  an'  teach  on  ship  how  to  be  Oriental.  Prett' 
soon  she  get  wise.  When  get  here,  Mullah  Ali 
writes  hup  in  German  what  he  know  an'  she  know  an' 

240 


NEW  YORK  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

she  put  in  English  tale  about  bein'  escape  from  Sultan. 
They  goin'start  the  show,  but  mus'  be  advertise." 

"Where  is  husband  all  this  time?"  inquired 
Abdallah. 

"He  deeg  cash,"  replied  Habib.  "Keep  him  bus^, 
you  bet.  He's  fool,  too.  Well,  get  back  an'  begin 
book  show.  Coin'  open  in  Jersey  City,  an'  go  on 
road.  Then  Talma  git  excite,  an'  say  mus'  seeng 
American  song,  too,  biffor  do  dance.  All  right.  She 
goin'  seeng  'Listen  to  the  Band,'  first. 

"This  show  is  name'  'Queen  of  the  Desert'  an'  is 
beeg  melodrama'.  Ess  all  rehearse  an'  Talma  pay 
all  bills.  Mullah  Ali  keep  an'  cop  out  hundort  dol- 
lare  every  day  or  so,  an'  hold  out.  First  show,  she 
come  on,  an*  begin  seeng  in  tights.  Ver'  craze  to 
show  shape. 

"She  seeng,  'Oh,  Listen  to  the  Band/  an'  march 
to  musack,  an'  Mullah  Ali  an'  Yousouf  in  weengs 
watch.  Then  what  you  theenk?  Her  tights  begin 
bust,  becos  she  git  fat  on  all  Arabian  grub  Mullah  Ali 
feed  her  to  mak'  fat.  They  bust  more,  an'  Mullah 
holler  in  German:  'Come  hof!  Come  hof!'  but  she 
kip  on  march  an'  seeng  like  fool. 

Peop'  begins  laff  an'  holler  from  front,  but  she  pay 
no  'tention.  Mullah  rush  an'  grab,  just  as  tights  is 
mos'  gone.  By  Allah!  The  show  is  crab,  an'  she 
have  faint. 

"Then  Mullah  Ali  get  so  mad  he  lick  her  good  an' 
hard.  His  wife  come  hup  an'  wimmens  begin  fight. 
Ees  terrible  bat'  they  have,  an'  put  scenery  on  the 
bum.  She  say,  Mullah  Ali  geeve  her  bad  deal,  but 
that  ain't  it.  She's  beeg  frost,  herself.  Mullah  Ali 
don't  get  more'n  ten  t'ousand  dollare  out  of  it,  after 
all  that  troub'.  She  go  on  back  to  hosban'.  Show 
open  eight,  close  at  nine  'clock.  Prett'  quick  tour, 
eh?" 


241 


Cap  Brown's  Water   Treat. 

He  Buys  a  Wagon  Load,  and  the  Copper  Camp  Wets  Up. 

THEY  sell  water  by  the  ounce  down  in  Southern  Utah. 
The  bigbugs  who  own  the  copper  mines  live  in  'Frisco 
and  take  baths — enough  in  one  of  them  to  send  a  whole 
camp  out  on  a  hilarious  fresh  water  souse.  They  give 
you  whiskey  to  chase  whiskey — it's  cheaper  than 
water. 

The  desert  is  dry,  and  so  are  the  inhabitants  of  Pio- 
neer, a  flock  of  tents  which  stand  spreadeagled  about 
the  base  of  Copper  Hill.  There  are  no  purling  little 
creeks  rushing  a-down  the  sandy  sides  of  Copper,  and 
thirty-eight  measly  cedars  and  pinons,  with  no  roots 
to  speak  of,  are  the  nearest  approach  to  the  thick,  green 
timber  which  decent  mountains  should  wear. 

There  were  thirty-eight,  because  John  Betts  once 
wagered  his  new  pattern  Luegar  and  a  hundred  in 
regular  money  upon  it  against  a  pinto  pack-horse  and 
another  hundred,  the  property,  for  the  moment,  of  a 
man  from  Cripple.  So  the  camp  had  taken  a  holiday 
one  Sunday,  or,  maybe,  a  Monday — dates  get  mixed 
where  you  pike  along  at  mining  every  day — and  the 
official  count  declared  Betts  winner. 

At  the  base  of  Copper  one  scraggly,  disreputable  old 
cottonwood  reared  its  dusty  green  spire.  The  spring 
was  there;  the  oneriest,  no-account  spring  along  the 
Arizona  border.  It  took  a  week  to  run  a  coffee  pot 
full  from  it.  The  spring  was  a  joke. 

Water  came  in  barrels,  at  a  dollar  a  barrel,  down 
the  road  by  freight  wagon  from  Santa  Clara,  not  quite 
so  desolate,  and  nearer  to  the  United  States.  The 
wrigglers  didn't  show  the  first  day  after  the  barrels  hit 
camp,  but  a  few  hours  later  the  man  who  didn't  like 
his  animal  food  au  natural  got  out  his  strainer  and 

242 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

let  his  dipperful  filter  through  before  he  took  a  chance. 

Of  course,  these  mining  gents  got  money  for  staying 
at  Copper  Camp,  and  they  got  a  lot,  too.  And  no- 
where to  spend  a  cent  except  to  buy  money  orders  for 
home  or  hang  around  and  bet  it  at  the  bank  or  the 
wheel  in  the  "Bucket  of  Blood,"  an  establishment 
much  more  peaceful  than  its  name  would  indicate. 

Bill  MacNulty,  foreman  of  the  Humming  Bird,  was 
sitting  in  front  of  his  tent  re-nailing  his  boots.  Tramp- 
ing over  copper  float  and  sand  wears  out  nails  in  a 
hurry,  and  Bill  only  had  one  pair. 

His  pard,  young  Sanders,  from  Wickenburg,  was 
darning  his  socks  and  fixing  a  patch  on  the  corduroy 
trousers,  which  needed  it  badly.  "Carrying  the  chain" 
while  surveying  in  the  district  is  hard  on  clothes,  espe- 
cially as  it  was  Mr.  Sanders'  habit  to  slide  down  such 
declivities  as  he  came  to,  heedless  that  at  evening  ma- 
terial for  a  new  patch  must  be  rustled. 

"I'd  laugh  if  it  would  rain,"  observed  Bill,  between 
nailings.  "Ain't  it  hell  how  a  country  like  this  can't 
have  no  water?  Where  kin  that  one-eyed  dub  with  the 
freight  wagon  be  ?  He's  late  now,  and  I  ain't  heard  no 
bells.  I  was  figurin'  on  washin'  my  face  to-morrow." 

"Why,  going  to  a  party?"  asked  Mr.  Sanders  amia- 
bly. "Don't  be  so  wasteful.  Say,  what  would  you  do 
if  a  big  cake  of  ice  came  up  right  in  front  of  you?" 

"Holler  fur  help.  I'd  know  I  was  foolish,"  said  Bill, 
gloomily.  "I  ordered  some  oranges  from  that  guy,  too. 
Where  kin  he  be?" 

It  grew  darker  on  the  desert.  A  few  dark  red 
smudges  showed  on  either  side  of  Copper  Hill,  behind 
which  the  hot  sun  had  disappeared.  Eight  o'clock  and 
no  water  wagon  came  grinding  through  the  sand. 

The  camp  was  fretful.  Men  who  had  cheerfully  dis- 
pensed with  ablutions  as  a  daily  duty  now  developed 
an  ever-growing  desire  to  wash. 

Chihuahua  Charlie,  the  lookout  in  the  Bucket  of 
Blood,  peevishly  busted  a  hole  in  the  top  of  an  "air- 
tight" of  green  peas,  from  which  he  carefully  poured 

243 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

the  liquid.  In  this  he  laundered  his  hands,  for  Chi- 
huahua was  a  particular  cuss,  and  he  wouldn't  go  to 
work  until  he'd  made  his  toilet  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

"Weeping  Jesus,"  half  Navajo  Injun  and  half  Greas- 
er, urged  to  effort  by  Bill  MacNulty,  was  posted  at  the 
Spring,  with  eleven  coffee  pots,  a  tin  cup  and  a  lan- 
tern. His  work  was  to  jealously  garner  each  unwill- 
ing drop  as  it  oozed  forth  from  under  the  big  rock, 
still  warm  from  the  sun,  to  insure  breakfast  coffee  all 
around. 

It  was  old  Cap  Brown,  from  Ogden,  who  first  no- 
ticed the  lack  of  moon  on  a  night  when  Luna  should 
properly  have  been  shedding  her  pale,  pure  light  and 
making  the  desert  beautiful.  Deserts  are  seldom 
pretty,  either  by  moon  or  daylight,  but  the  folk  who 
write  about  the  barren  wastes  back  in  old  New  Hamp- 
shire sometimes  say  it  that  way. 

Cap  Brown  had  won  seven  dollars  playing  "Twen- 
ty-one" during  the  day,  and  there  was  that  much  and 
at  least  six  bits  more  inside  him  in  liquid  form.  He 
had  on  a  suit  of  thin  cotton  pajamas,  and  all  afternoon 
he  had  loafed  about  camp,  drunk  and  disreputable,  in- 
stead of  starting  on  a  long-planned  trip  across  into 
Nevada  in  company  with  Weeping  Jesus,  who  wanted 
to  show  Cap  a  galena  prospect  which  was  the  real  goods. 

Cap  had  gone  to  bed  in  his  tent  several  times,  arising 
after  a  short  and  nightmarish  snooze,  filled  with  a 
burning  of  the  "innards"  and  a  wonder  that  it  was  not 
yet  dark. 

Now  he  was  up  and  about  again,  conversing  loudly 
with  himself  about  nothing  except  the  moon,  which 
was  not  riding  in  the  starry  skies. 

"I  b'lieve,  Brown,"  he  said,  addressing  himself, 
"there's  goin'  to  be  a  storm."  With  that  he  entered 
the  Bucket  of  Blood,  shielding  his  bloodshot  eyes  from 
the  lamplight.  "Gimme  a  drink  of  water.  I'm  sizzlin' 
in  my  stummick,  and  awful  sick,  Pete,"  said  he  to  the 
barkeep. 

The  latter  pointed  to  an  empty  water  keg,  the 
244 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

cover  off,  with  the  damp  bottom  the  only  wet  thing 
about  the  place.  "Ain't  no  water  till  One-eye  comes, 
Cap,"  he  said  gayly.  "Guess  he'll  be  piroutin'  in  be- 
fore midnight.  Boys  been  drinkin'  up  what  sody  they 
was  left  in  the  bottles,  too.  They  ain't  nothin'  here 
but  plain  booze,  an'  gin,  cocktails  an'  creme  de  mint. 
Won't  you  go  against  'em  ?" 

"I'm  dyin'  on  my  feet  now!"  cried  Cap,  miserably, 
pressing  his  disturbed  stomach.  "I'm  goin'  up  an'  lay 
in  the  spring. 

But  Chihuahua  Charlie  stopped  him. 

"Ain't  you  heard  them  tales  about  poor  miners  a- 
dyin'  of  thirst  on  the  desert,  an'  licking  wildly  at  the 
sun-baked  mud  of  ancient  buffalo  wallers?"  he  asked 
gravely.  "Don't  you  go  to  absorbing  all  that  spring 
now.  We're  liable  to  thank  that  there  mudhole  for 
savin'  our  lives  yet." 

Talk  became  general,  and  John  Betts  told  lively  in- 
stances in  which  dear  departed  friends  of  his  had 
breathed  their  last  wandering,  lost,  over  the  cruel,  hot 
sands. 

"But  we  ain't  lost,  you  lobster!"  expostulated  Mac- 
Nulty.  "I  wish  you'd  quit!  I'm  gettin'  awful  thirsty 
myself." 

"Once,  over  on  the  Colorado,  I  drank  up  two  gallons 
of  ice  water  on  a  bet,"  said  young  Sanders,,  reminis- 
cently.  "It  tasted  so  good  I  could  have  licked  up  an- 
other. Ice  water's  liable  to  kill  you  if  you  take  too 
much.  Doctors  say  so,  too." 

"Shut  up !"  exclaimed  some  one  disgustedly.  "We'll 
all  be  chokin'  to  death  in  a  minute !" 

Just  then  Weeping  Jesus  came  out  of  the  night. 
"Ees  beeg  storm,  cyclon,  blow  hup!"  he  shrieked  in 
tones  of  terror.  "Come,  whoop !  Knock  over  pot,  heet 
me  wif  mooch  sand  !  Ees  hell !" 

A  sudden  wild  wind  swept  through  the  shack,  and  as 
quickly  died  away,  leaving  all  quiet  outside. 

"Dog  gone  you,  vamoose  back  an'  put  them  pots 
straight,  and  fill  'em  up!"  shouted  Mr.  Hankins,  boss  of 

245 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

the  Bucket  of  Blood.  "Storm !  Can't  a  breeze  cool  off 
this  heat  without  you  goin'  off  your  nut  complete  ?  Have 
some  sense,  Jesus." 

Jesus  spoke  fluently,  in  Greaser  Spanish,  and  he 
scowled  sullenly  at  Mr.  Hankins.  "You  not  my  boss !" 
he  growled.  "I  got  money,  mooch  as  you.  Don't  have 
to  go."  His  game  eye  wept,  because  it  always  did.  That 
was  why  the  camp  had  so  aptly  named  him.  Captain 
Brown  sat  in  a  miserable,  sweating  heap,  very,  very  sick. 

"Jesus  Marie  Xavier  Running  Buck,"  said  he  faintly — 
this  was  the  much  mixed  regular  name  of  the  weeping 
one,  "You  been  workin'  an'  bummin'  around  on  my 
money  two  years.  Ef  you  want  your  breakfast  to-mor- 
rer,  sluff !  You  hear  me." 

Jesus  considered  a  moment.  "Ees  too  beeg  weend!" 
he  said  plaintively.  "Ees  cyclon,  boss.  Hones'." 

Cap  settled  back  on  his  uncomfortable  chair,  groaning. 

"He's  loco,  that  guy,"  remarked  MacNulty,  "We  ain't 

had  no  rain  for  so  long  that" He  ceased.  The 

sound  of  a  shot,  then  two  more,  and  shouting,  came  to  the 
ears  of  Mr.  Hankins'  customers.  Young  Sanders  did  a 
buck  dance  for  joy,  making  the  stacks  of  chips  at  the  stud 
table  waggle  and  fall,  whereat  their  owners  cursed  the 
dancer. 

One  Eye  was  coming!  Jesus  recovered  his  spirits  in- 
stantly. Hankins  became  pleasant,  the  solo,  the  "vingt- 
un"  table  and  the  stud  game  stopped. 

The  moon  was  just  sneaking  along  behind  a  ragged, 
gray-black  cloud,  showing  whitely  through  in  places.  They 
crowded  outside,  listening  to  the  tinkle-tankle  of  the  bells 
on  the  eight-mule  freight  wagon,  and  at  the  voice  of  One 
Eye,  urging  them  on.  He  was  still  a  good  half  mile 
away,  but  the  cool  little  wind  brought  the  sounds  plainly. 

"Where's  your  storm,  Jesus?"  laughed  John  Betts.  "I 
reckon  you  seen  a  mirage,  an'  at  night,  too !" 

Every  one  guffawed  at  this  sally,  all  but  Cap.  He  had 
slid  to  the  floor,  at  the  end  of  Hankins'  shiny  bar,  im- 
ported from  St.  George  by  freight  wagon,  and  lay  there, 

246 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

holding  his  aching  head,  with  no  interest  in  anything  but 
his  own  woe. 

Tents  emptied  quickly  when  the  occupants  heard  One 
Eye's  signal  shot. 

The  wind  blew  colder,  all  in  a  moment.  MacNulty  had 
opened  his  mouth  to  welcome  the  change  from  the  day's 
stifling  heat — and  the  cyclone  struck  camp.  There  were 
yells  of  fright  and  calls  for  help,  tents  went  over  and 
men  were  tangled  in  them;  blankets  of  sand  swept  over 
them.  Hankins'  bar  went  sailing  aloft,  and  Cap  took  a 
journey  on  the  wind,  landing  in  a  clump  of  dusty  sage- 
brush 300  yards  away.  A  wild  jangle  of  mule  bells  came 
to  MacNulty  once,  as  he  lay  prone  in  the  sand,  his  toes 
and  fingers  digging  in  with  frantic  clutch.  Smash !  Crash ! 
He  heard  the  wrecking  on  all  sides.  Something  fell 
heavily  on  his  back,  moved  up  to  his  neck,  and  through 
his  thin  undershirt  rain  seemed  to  be  falling.  He  twisted 
his  head  to  look,  keeping  his  eyes  almost  shut  for  fear  of 
the  blinding  sand.  Weeping  Jesus  was  slowly  crying 
into  Mac's  neck.  Limp  and  scared  senseless  was  he,  but 
Mac  angrily  shook  him  off.  Then,  all  being  quiet,  he 
arose  slowly  and  gazed  on  the  scene.  The  camp  was  scat- 
tered over  the  desert.  Near  at  hand  the  dreadful  hee- 
hawing  of  One  Eye's  mules,  very  evidently  still  alive, 
came  to  him. 

The  moon  same  out,  shining  yellowly.  The  cyclone 
was  over.  One  by  one,  the  miners  turned  up.  Young 
Sanders  came  along,  assisting  Cap,  who  swore  he  wished 
to  die  at  once,  and  be  done  with  it.  In  a  body  they 
searched  for  One  Eye,  stumbling  over  wreckage,  and 
roaring  to  each  other.  They  found  him  under  various 
portions  of  his  wagon,  unhurt. 

"I  guess  the  bar'ls  are  gone,  fellers,"  he  remarked,  rue- 
fully. "We  better  see.  Hello  Weeper,  that  you?  How 
you  been?" 

"  'Ow's  tings  at  Virgin  Revaire  ?"  asked  Jesus  in  his 
turn  politely,  his  teeth  still  chattering. 

"Well,  looks  like  some  of  this  Virgin  River  water  I 
247 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

brung  is  irrigatin'  the  desert,"  and  One  Eye  began  inves- 
tigating. 

One  barrel  remained  unharmed.  Stray  oranges,  the 
mail  sack,  bags  of  coffee  and  potatoes,  sides  of  bacon  and 
cans  of  syrup  were  about.  Carefully,  they  tapped  the 
lonely  barrel,  each  drinking  sparingly,  for  this  must  last 
until  young  Sanders  took  one  of  One  Eye's  mules  and 
rode  to  Santa  Clara,  on  Virgin  River,  to  order  a  new 
supply. 

The  camp  made  a  joke  of  it  all.  Chihuahua  set  up  the 
faro  layout  and  the  checkrack,  recovered  from  odd  spots. 
Hankins  dug  out  two  candles,  shielding  them  from  the 
mild  little  breeze  now  blowing  with  a  paper.  Chihuahua 
kept  cases  on  the  game,  and  Fatty  Lyons,  the  slickest 
dealer  in  Utah,  took  his  place  behind  the  dealing  box. 

Cap  suddenly  recovered.  It  was  decided  that  the  cy- 
clcne  had  cured  him.  He  had  a  yen  to  gamble,  and  bet 
high. 

"What's  the  limit,  Fat?"  he  asked. 

"The  sky,  old  pal,"  replied  Fatty  unconcernedly,  and 
Cap  dug  for  his  bag  of  gold,  taking  his  place  at  the  king 
end.  The  others  made  small  bets,  including  One  Eye, 
who  would,  on  occasion,  stake  even  his  mules  upon  the 
turn  of  a  card,  but  Cap  did  the  big  betting.  At  3  a.  m. 
he  had  $17,000  on  the  bank.  Hankins  ordered  his  men 
to  close  the  game,  as  the  last  two  cards  came  out  of  the 
box. 

"You  stung  me  that  time,  you  old  sinner!"  he  said. 
"But  wait'll  we  set  up  housekeepin'  reg'lar  again.  I  bet 
I  have  your  hide  a  dryin'  on  the  roof !" 

Young  Sanders  was  five  hours  gone,  loping  over  the 
desert  to  Santa  Clara. 

The  camp  went  to  sleep,  with  a  forlorn  coyote  barking 
up  on  Copper  Hill,  and  One  Eye's  thirsty  mules  voicing 
their  troubles  from  the  big  cottonwood  by  the  spring, 

where  they  were  tied. 

*         *         * 

"Now,  where  is  that  old  lunatic,  anyway?"  Hankins 
asked  it.  But  no  one  knew  aught  of  Cap  Brown,  or  his 

248 


CAP  BROWN'S  WATER  TREAT. 

bank  roll.  There  was  no  one  to  steal  from  him,  and 
Weeping  Jesus  was  present.  That  meant  he  had  delib- 
erately chased  off  somewhere  by  himself. 

When  One  Eye  found  a  four-year-old  black  mule  miss- 
ing, it  seemed  to  answer  the  question.  But  he  had  left  a 
big  outfit  behind,  also  Jesus,  for  whom  Cap  felt  a  queer 
fondness.  They  couldn't  understand  it,  and  the  waterless 
camp  went  mournfully  about  the  remaking  of  their  homes. 

Young  Sanders  got  in  with  Pecos  Billy's  wagon  about 
midnight.  He  was  all  out  and  sleeping  on  top  of  the 
barrels,  after  his  hard  ride  to  the  river.  The  camp  drank 
long  and  enthusiastically.  Where  was  Cap  Brown? 
Jesus  lay  in  a  despondent  heap,  his  bad  eye  crying  as 
usual. 

Along  about  daybreak  all  the  mules  in  camp  set  up  a 
welcoming  song.  It  was  deafening.  The  camp  got  up, 
each  armed  with  something  to  swat  the  disturbers. 

There  was  Cap  Brown,  riding  atop  of  a  pyramid  of 
water  barrels,  drawn  by  fourteen  big  Mexican  mules. 
Jesus,  bleating  happily,  rushed  toward  him,  and  so  did 
the  rest,  many  very  airily  clad  indeed,  fresh,  as  they  were, 
from  their  beds. 

"Here  I  am,  boys !  Go  as  far  as  you  like  with  it !  This 
drink's  on  me!"  yelled  Cap.  Cheers  greeted  him.  Will- 
ing hands  unloaded  the  wagon,  and  they  took  a  holiday. 
Such  a  plenitude  of  water  had  never  been  in  the  Wah- 
Wah  Valley  before. 

They  built  fires  of  crackling  sagebrush,  and  boiled 
water,  just  because  they  could.  They  bathed  and  drank, 
and  drank  and  bathed.  Hankins  served  whisky  free,  but 
no  one  wanted  it.  They  were  intoxicated  on  water. 

The  mules  drank  gratefully. 

Shirts  which  water  had  never  profaned  were  soaped 
and  rubbed  and  rinsed,  while  gentlemen  with  a  real  aver- 
sion to  washing  rioted  in  it  for  once.  Every  man,  in 
his  turn,  got  in  the  big  casks,  with  only  his  head  out,  yell- 
ing and  splashing. 

Down  in  the  sagebrush  country  they  still  tell  of  Cap 
Brown's  treat.  It  was  a  great  day. 

249 


The    Adventures    of    Clarence, 
the   Messenger    Boy. 

THE  fat  brewer  from  St.  Louis  was  in  town  for  a  day 
or  so,  and  he  had  seen  all  the  sights  from  Paul  Kelly's 
place  to  Cleopatra's  needle.  With  two  friends  he  was 
taking  in  the  burlesque  show  on  the  Bowery,  and  every 
time  the  chunky  girl  in  the  green  tights  on  the  end  gave 
him  the  eye  he  stood  up  in  the  box  and  signalled  that  he 
was  willing  to  buy  a  drink.  She  must  have  been  thirsty, 
poor  girl,  because  she  gave  him  the  Injun  sign  right  back 
that  she  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  a  nice  cold  bottle. 

But  when  the  soubrette  who  played  a  "child  part"  came 
on,  with  her  pink  clad  limbs  and  white  shoes,  a  ruffled  baby 
bonnet  and  pink  dress,  it  was  good-night  for  her  job- 
lots  on  the  end.  The  fat  man  transferred  his  glances,  and 
only  hoped  that  she  wasn't  too  young  to  be  allowed  to  go 
to  supper  alone  after  the  show. 

The  soubrette  threw  him  a  coy  look,  in  the  shyest  and 
cutest  way.  He  immediately  prevailed  on  his  friend,  the 
cigar  man,  to  cash  a  check,  because  you  need  a  little  ready 
cash  in  the  kick  in  a  big  town,  and  he  was  going  to  show 
this  one  he  was  the  goods. 

She  made  a  couple  of  funny  motions  to  him,  and  he 
couldn't  make  out  whether  she  had  a  stern  parent  in  be- 
hind or  wanted  him  to  trot  around  to  the  stage  door.  They 
have  burlesque  shows  in  St.  Louis,  too,  and  the  brewer 
wasn't  going  to  fall  for  any  brace  game,  so  he  doped  out  a 
cautious  play. 

He  told  the  friends  he'd  be  back,  and  floated  out  to  hunt 
a  messenger.  Now,  Clarence  Fink,  the  red  headed  mes- 

250 


CLARENCE,  THE  MESSENGER  BOY. 

senger  boy  from  an  uptown  office,  had  been  delivering  a 
note  at  the  Sullivan  clubhouse.  He  was  taking  a  leisurely 
look  at  the  pictures  of  ladies  in  tights  along  the  line  before 
returning  to  his  office. 

When  the  fat  man  halted  him,  Clarence  wasn't  the  lad 
to  let  anything  slip  past,  so  he  said  he  was  from  the  Grand 
street  office,  and  what  did  the  gent  want?  The  brewer 
entrusted  Clarence  with  an  invitation  to  supper,  to  be  re- 
peated to  the  little  'un  whose  name  on  the  bills  was  Birdie 
May  Nailem.  When  Clarence  heard  this  he  whistled 
shrilly,  then  laughed  inwardly.  The  fat  man  told  Clar- 
ence, as  between  man  and  man,  she  was  a  bird,  too,  and 
maybe  he'd  take  her  out  of  the  business  and  kind  of  show 
her  how  a  man  from  ol'  Missoury  treated  a  lady  when  he 
was  there  with  a  bundle. 

"I  may  have  a  few  balls  under  my  belt,  y'know,"  he  said, 
"but  I'm  allus  a  gen'leman,  see  ?  Just  tell  her  I'm  the  boy 
who  keeps  the  waiters  busy.  Sort  of  make  it  strong,  and 
you'll  draw  down  a  two-spot.  You  see,  I'm  married,  and 
if  I  let  you  frame  this  up  I  ain't  takin'  any  chances." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Clarence.  "I'm  the  best  fixer 
youse  ever  run  again.  Wait  fur  me  on  the  corner,  and 
I'll  be  back  wit'  a  report."  Many  a  time  when  this  par- 
ticular show  played  the  house  Clarence  had  been  in  back. 

Birdie  May  Nailem  was  giving  her  oldest  son,  Billy, 
who  had  hair  as  red  as  Clarence's,  a  few  instructions  as 
she  dressed  for  her  next  part,  when  the  latter  appeared  at 
her  dressing  room  door. 

"Now,  you  tell  your  father  if  he  shows  up  with  another 
souse  on,  he  kin  hunt  a  new  home,"  she  said,  angrily.  "And 
you  g'wan  home  and  tell  your  sister  not  to  furgit  to  give 
baby  his  medicine.  Whadda  you  want  ?  Ain't  I  told  you 
to  keep  away  from  here  ?"  she  inquired,  as  Clarence  mod- 
estly signed  that  he  desired  speech  with  her. 

"Say,  maw,"  said  he,  with  a  grin,  "youse  got  a  mash! 
This  guy's  here  wit'  all  kinds,  an'  says  will  youse  have  sup- 
per an'  he'll  buy  wine  ?  It's  the  mark  who  was  settin'  in  a 
box — he  says  youse  seen  him."  "Maw"  laughed  in  a 
gratified  manner.  "I  guess  I  can  land  a  few  if  I  have  got 

251 


CLARENCE,  THE  MESSENGER  BOY. 

a  big  kid  like  you,  Clary,"  she  observed.  "Lemme  see, 
now." 

"Con  him  along,  maw,"  suggested  Clarence,  craftily. 
"I  t'ink  he'll  stand  a  swell  touch."  "You  mind  your  busi- 
ness and  go  back  and  say  I'll  go,"  replied  the  fond  mam- 
ma of  Clarence  Fink,  and  then  she  added  a  few  whispered 
orders. 

"A  private  room  for  the  supper !  Great !"  chuckled  the 
fat  man,  when  Clarence  returned  with  the  news.  "I  guess 
I've  made  a  hit."  Clarence  helped  him  find  a  quiet  little 
place,  where  he  ordered  supper  for  two,  with  plenty  of  fizz, 
then  got  a  cab  and  drove  back  to  get  Birdie  May. 


They  were  getting  quite  chummy,  and  the  fat  man  had 
let  Birdie  put  on  his  two  big  diamond  rings,  and  see  how 
his  stud  looked  in  her  shirtwaist.  Suddenly  the  door 
opened,  and  Clarance,  wildly  excited,  burst  in  upon  them. 

"Skiddoo !"  he  cried,  in  thrilling  tones.  "Hully  chee ! 
Jerome's  raidin'  the  place !  Youse'll  bot,  be  in  the  pa- 
pers ?" 

Birdie  May  screamed,  the  fat  man  turned  white. 
"My  wife !    I'll  be  ruined !"  he  gasped. 

"I'll  save  youse  !  This  way.  Folly  me !"  commanded 
Clarence,  grasping  his  arm,  and  the  fat  man,  snatching  his 
hat,  didn't  even  stop  to  bid  Birdie  good-night.  When 
they  had  gone  down  some  back  stairs,  through  an  alley 
and  into  Second  avenue,  Clarence  paused. 

"Safe !"  he  said.  "T'ank  youse  lucky  stars,  too !  Je- 
rome himself  was  wit'  'em." 

"But  why'd  they  raid  it  ?"  asked  the  fat  man,  still  trem- 
bling. 

"Didn't  I  hear  her  husband  tellin'  'em  he'd  follied  youse, 
an'  to  mug  bot'  of  youse?"  returned  Clarence,  "an'  ain't 
that  enough?" 

The  fat  man  was  horrified,  then.  "My  diamonds !"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Ef  youse  git  outa  this  town  wit'  youse  healt',  youse  in 
luck,"  said  Clarance,  impressively.  "Kf  youse  make  a 

252 


CLARENCE,  THE  MESSENGER  BOY. 

beef,  that  dame's  old  man  might  croak  youse.  I  heard  the 
cop  say  he  was  a  killer." 

"I  guess  I'll  go  back  home,"  remarked  the  fat  man,  sad- 
ly, "and  let  'em  go!  Gosh,  what  a  narrow  escape!  I 
hope  he  don't  kill  that  poor  girl." 

"It's  none  of  your  funeral,"  said  Clarance ;  "it'll  soive 
her  right.  Why,  t'anks,  mister."  For  the  fat  man  had 
pressed  a  ten-dollar  bill  upon  Clarance. 

"You  saved  my  life,"  he  said,  "and  if  you'll  see  me  safe 
on  the  train,  I'll  give  you  another.  I've  had  enough  of 
New  York." 

And  the  next  day  all  of  Birdie  May  Nailem's  numerous 
family  had  new  clothes,  and  mother  had  money  in  the 
bank. 


Topeka  Thompson's  Educated 
Dice. 

MESSRS.  BENDER  AND  TWISTER,  the  acrobatic  duo, 
walked  up  the  steps  of  the  actors'  boarding  house  in 
Irving  Place.  Each  carried  a  suit  case.  They  were  glad 
to  be  back  in  New  York,  after  several  weeks  playing 
Western  park  dates,  and  when  Bill  Bender  had  rung  the 
bell  he  did  a  merry  little  dance  upon  the  top  step.  "I 
guess  it's  bad  to  see  Fourteenth  street  again.  Eh?"  said 
he.  "I  hope  we  get  a  good  room." 

Susy,  the  slavey,  opened  the  door.  Both  gentlemen 
greeted  her  with  vaudevillain  humor.  Susy  had  heard 
their  jests  before,  but  she  laughed,  because  Bender  had 
given  her  a  quarter  once,  and  he  might  do  so  again.  "I 
s'pose  you  want  a  room?"  she  remarked. 

"Sure,"  answered  Joe  Twister.    "Call  the  boss,  Susy." 

The  slavey  lifted  her  voice.  "Oh,  Mista  de  Shine,  a 
coupla  parties  is  came  for  rooms!"  she  shouted.  Above 
a  door  opened  and  closed.  Bender  and  Twister  ex- 
changed glances.  Surely  the  servant  had  called  "Mr." 
and  not  "Mrs."  de  Shine!  A  heavy  foot  was  heard  in 
the  hall  above. 

"Whuzzat  you  say,  Susy?"  said  a  gruff  voice.  Susy 
repeated  her  remark,  and  the  new  boss  of  the  place  came 
dlownstairs.  He  was  fat  and  red  faced.  A  perpetual 
odor  of  whisky  and  bad  cigars  emanated  from  his  person. 
He  wore  an  undershirt,  trousers  and  carpet  slippers  this 
hot  night,  and  ran  a  hand  through  his  stubby  hair  as  he 
descended. 

"Evenin',"  he  said. 

254 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

"How'd  do  ?"  returned  Mr.  Twister  affably.  "We  want 
to  see  Mrs.  de  Shine.  Ain't  she  in  ?  We  ust  to  stop  here, 
you  know." 

"I  do  the  business  here,"  replied  the  fat  man,  scowling. 
"I'm  her  husband.  See?  Bill  de  Shine,  that's  me.  I'm 
runnin'  the  place,  young  fellers." 

Twister  and  Bender  conferred  by  signals.  Bender's 
nods  meant  that  they  might  as  well  take  a  room  as  go  to 
some  other  place,  and  Twister's  wink  that  he  agreed. 
"Kin  we  get  30?"  asked  the  latter,  "if  it  ain't  took?  We 
allus  had  it." v 

"It's  two  more  a  week  now,"  said  Mrs.  de  Shine's 
husband.  "I've  raised  all  prices.  Want  it?  No?  Then 
I'll  give  you  one  of  the  $6  a  week  rooms — top  floor,  back, 
Susy,  and  don't  disturb  me  again.  Collect  in  advance." 

This  was  the  limit  of  insult.  Never  had  any  vaudeville 
performer  paid  board  before  the  next  Saturday  night, 
when  his  or  her  salary  was  due. 

"We  never  paid  first  before,"  began  Bill  Bender,  "and 
won't  now.  See?  Where's  Maggie,  anyway?  You  can't 
throw  no  bluff  at  us.  We  don't  owe  nothin'  to  you  or 
nobody,  and  if  you  want  pay  first  from  a  team  like  us, 
what  plays  none  but  the  best  houses,  why  go  chase  your- 
self." 

"Goes  for  me,  too/'  declared  his  partner  warmly ;  "you 
bet." 

Mr.  de  Shine  gazed  at  them  out  of  two  little  pig-like 
eyes.  "Oh,  if  you  been  here  before,"  said  he,  propitia- 
tingly,  "it's  all  right.  Don't  get  sore.  Business  is  busi- 
ness, and  my  wife  had  a  mob  of  dead  ones,  you  see,  so  I 
had  to  clean  up.  Show  'em  up,  Susy." 

He  lumbered  upstairs  ahead  of  them,  opened  the  door 
of  the  first  floor  front  and  went  in.  The  pair  plodded 
upward,  with  Susy  in  the  rear.  On  the  third  floor  by 
the  dim  light  of  a  turned-down  gas  jet  Bill  Bender  dis- 
cerned a  woman's  figure.  "Hello,  Maggie!"  said  he 
loudly.  "Give  us  your  mitt.  Who's  your  friend,  the  big 
noise?" 

Mrs.  de  Shine,  formerly  undisputed  queen  of  her  own 

255 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

house,  clasped  his  hand,  and  in  a  whisper  implored  him 
to  hush.  "Is  he  down  in  the  hall?"  she  asked.  "My 
soul  ain't  my  own  no  more.  Yes,  me,  the  proud  Maggie 
de  Shine,  I  ain't  no  more  account  in  my  own  joint  than 
a  rabbit.  Gawd  knows  I'm  glad  tuh  see  yuh  boys,  but 
my  heart  is  tore  in  two,  an'  that  ain't  no  josh." 

She  accompanied  them  up  the  two  remaining  flights, 
and  when  both  young  men  had  begged  her  to  explain 
she  did.  Mr.  de  Shine  had  arrogantly  intruded  one  night, 
put  the  dinner  guests  to  flight  and  announced  that  as  Mrs. 
de  Shine  was  his  lawful,  undivorced  wife,  and  what  was 
hers  was  his,  he  proposed  to  remain  there  and  look  out 
for  his  rights.  She  didn't  know  why  she  had  yielded, 
but  she  had. 

"A  gell  gets  so  tired  of  bein'  a  lone  woman,"  she  said, 
tearfully,  "an'  me  havin'  no  one  tuh  advise  me,  I  s'pose 
I  let  him  stick  so's  he'd  quit  makin'  a  disturbance.  It's 
been  two  weeks,  an'  he's  druv  out  half  the  boarders.  He 
plays  cards  with  'em  an'  beats  'em,  an'  ef  they  won't  play 
he  talks  sumpin'  dretful.  He's  down  there  with  the  Bingo 
Musical  Four  now,  an'  I  jest  know  them  boys  is,  losin'. 
Don't  yuh  play  with  him,  will  yuh?  And  don't  go  'way. 
It  does  me  good  tuh  see  old  frens  again." 

Bender  and  Twister  bade  her  a  temporary  farewell, 
and  then  discussed  this  strange  affair.  "Women  don't 
know  anything,"  said  Mr.  Bender.  "I've  heard  her  say 
forty  times  she'd  belt  him  in  the  jaw  if  he  came  'round, 
and  look  what  she  doe.  Lets  the  old  mutt  butt  in  and 
raise  the  dickens." 

"So  he  trims  the  gang,  eh?"  ruminated  Mr.  Twister. 
"He's  got  a  sweet  chance  to  make  anything  offer  us,  ain't 
he?  I  s'pose  the  grub  is  run  by  his  nibs,  too.  Well,  if 
it's  too  much  on  the  cheeserine,  we  can  vamp  out  easy, 
that's  sure.  Gim'me  a  cigarette." 

They  lay  upon  their  bed,  talking  and  smoking  for  an 
hour  afterward  before  getting  ready  for  slumber. 

The  Bingo  Musical  Four  creaked  up  to  bed.  From 
their  remarks  it  was  apparent  that  they  had  lost  at  a  game 
of  poker  with  the  boss.  They  went  into  two  rooms  near 

256 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

Twister  and  Bender,  and  only  the  dull  buzz  of  their 
voices  was  heard. 

"William!"  shrilly  called  Mrs.  de  Shine  at  midnight, 
"where  yuh.  goin'  ?  Can't  yuh  take  Fido  out  fur  a  walk  ? 
The  dolling  ain't  had  no  air  tuh-day." 

"Aw,  shut  up !"  replied  Mr.  de  Shine's  growling  tones, 
"I  ain't  no  poodle's  nurse !" 

This  caused  Twister  and  Bender,  awake  in  their  bed, 
which  bore  a  mattress  in  which  lumps  and  sudden  dis- 
tressing hollows  abounded,  to  snicker.  Fido,  the  poodle, 
was  detested  by  every  one  but  his  devoted  owner.  He 
was  a  snarling,  over-fed  little  beast,  whose  chief  delight 
was  in  biting  inoffensive  persons  when  they  endeavored 
to  pet  him.  "I  give  him  credit  for  not  standin'  for  that 
dawg,"  said  Bender,  chuckling.  Mr.  Twister  snored  in 
answer.  His  partner  rearranged  his  own  pillow,  got  up 
to  turn  off  the  gas,  and  laid  himself  down  again.  All 
was  quiet  on  their  floor  and  soon  he  slept. 


Mr.  de  Shine  sat  on  the  front  steps  in  the  glare  of  the 
electric  street  light.  As  each  of  the  boarders  came  up 
the  steps,  home  from  doing  their  acts  or  supping  with 
friends,  he  addressed  them.  "Feel  like  a  game  ?"  said  he. 

Those  who  feared  him  got  around  it  in  some  way. 
The  ones  who  were  fully  paid  up  sneered  openly  and 
passed  in. 

Minnie  and  Jessie  McDoodle  (billed  as  the  Sisters  Mc- 
Doodle,  champion  lady  rifle  shots  of  the  world)  stopped 
to  speak  with  him. 

"Like  to  play  a  little  cards,  ladies?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  gee !  We're  goin'  to  bed,"  replied  Jessie.  "Got 
a  rehearsal  in  the  morning,  an'  we  can't  play  poker  any- 
way." 

The  boss  invited  them  to  tarry  a  moment.  "I  ain't 
crazy  about  poker  myself,"  he  remarked.  "Hearts  is  a 
nice  game,  if  you  play  for  a  little  stake,  and  I'd  even 
play  casino  to  oblige  a  friend.  S'posin'  we  have  a  little 
game  of  that  now,  just  to  pass  the  time." 

257 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

Minnie  McDoodle  kicked  her  sister  gently.  The  latter 
walked  in.  "We  ain't  going  to  play,  an'  let  that  end  it," 
said  Jessie,  distinctly.  "We're  paying  our  board,  you 
know." 

"Hoity,  toity,"  said  Mr.  de  Shine  soothingly.  "Don't 
need  to  get  huffy  about  it,  gals." 

"Say,  he's  just  awful !"  exclaimed  Jessie  as  they  climbed 
to  their  room.  "You  can't  get  in  or  out  without  meeting 
the  old  villain." 

As  each  person  came  in  the  boss  met  them  with  an 
invitation  to  a  little  game.  In  vain  did  the  almost  hysteri- 
cal landlady,  bearing  the  growling  Fido  in  her  arms, 
remonstrate  with  him.  His  reply  was  that  they  didn't 
have  to  play  if  they  had  no  desire  to  do  so. 

"Pryor  and  his  band"  were  playing  a  season's  engage- 
ment at  a  beach  resort  near  New  York.  Several  of  the 
members  lived  at  Mrs.  de  Shine's,  and  of  the  five  there 
four  had  fallen  victims  to  the  boss.  But  "Topeka" 
Thompson,  one  of  the  clarinets,  had  not.  Many  years 
with  a  circus  band  had  taught  Mr.  Thompson,  a  sturdy 
son  of  Kansas,  a  great  deal. 

The  boss  had  set  the  most  alluring  traps,  and  the  wily 
clarinetist  had  merely  grinned,  saying  that  he  didn't  care 
for  cards.  Topeka,  a  long-time  bachelor,  daily  evinced 
a  more  pronounced  liking  for  Minnie  McDoodle.  He 
was  permitted  to  call  for  a  half  hour's  visit  every  night, 
and  with  Jessie  as  chaperon  and  Birdie  Barrington,  the 
vocalist,  next  door,  it  was  considered  quite  au  fait,  under 
the  circumstances.  It  was  midnight  when  he  got  home 
from  the  beach  and  at  least  1 1  when  the  sister  team  got  in. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  him  I'd  quit  this  old  place,"  sighed 
Minnie.  "Why,  the  meals  are  just  awful.  That  must  be 
Birdie." 

Birdie,  after  knocking,  entered.  "Did  he  hold  you  up 
again?"  she  inquired.  "My  soul!  he's  the  limit.  A  gen'- 
man  fren  of  mine  saw  me  home  from  playin'  that  club  in 
Harlem,  and  old  de  Shine  actually  began  on  Willie.  I 
give  him  a  good  strong  call." 

Birdie  sat  on  a  turned  up  suit  case,  chairs  being  scarce. 

258 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

She  had  brought  her  manicuring  utensils,  and  busily  at- 
tended to  her  nails  as  she  conversed.  "Ah,  me!  I'm 
lonesome,"  she  said.  "Wait  till  you're  married  an'  your 
old  man's  on  the  road  with  the  big  top,  my  dears,  and 
you're  all  alone.  S'posin'  you  harness  up  with  Thompson, 
you'll  have  the  same  thing,  Minnie.  He'll  be  doin'  band 
work  an'  you  in  vodeville.  Well,  show  business  ain't  no 
cinch,  an'  yet  you  stick  in  it." 

"He's  coming  now !"  cried  Minnie,  her  eyes  sparkling. 
She  blushed,  too,  for  stage  ladies  are  but  human.  The 
other  two  jokingly  plagued  Minnie  about  her  sweetheart. 

"They  do  say  clarinets  is  reg'lar  devils  for  connin'  the 
girls/'  said  Birdie.  "Now,  a  good  steady  kettle  drummer 
is  the  kind  for  me." 

The  heavy  tread  of  two  pairs  of  male  feet  went  past 
the  door.  "Got  a  match?"  asked  one,  for  the  hall  was 
dark. 

"Oh,  dear,  he's  brought  some  man  up  to  talk  music 
with,"  lamented  Minnie,  dismally.  "That's  all  he  cares 
for  me." 

"They're  all  the  same,"  replied  the  pessimistic  Birdie, 
consolingly ; ;  "every  one  of  'em." 

But  Topeka  tapped  a  moment  later.  "All  knockin'  me, 
eh?"  said  he,  with  a  wink.  "A  guy's  got  a  small  chance 
when  three  get  to  tellin'  his  past.  Say,  I  got  an  old  pal 
from  the  Pawnee  Bill  show  band.  Lem'me  bring  him 
in?  He's  a  real  nice  fellow." 

Jessie  gave  gracious  permission.  The  ladies  hurriedly 
powdered  their  faces,  arranged  the  folds  of  their  kimonos 
— a  hard-working  artiste  may  sidestep  convention  in  the 
matter  of  attire  at  times — and  when  Topeka's  friend, 
Jim  Allegretti,  appeared  they  greeted  him  pleasantly. 

"That's  a  queer  fish,  the  fat  guy  downstairs,"  said  he. 
"Tried  to  get  us  into  a  crap  game.  Last  night  it  was 
cribbage." 

"If  my  Sam  was  here  he'd  fix  him,"  said  Birdie.  "Sam 
is  dead  wise  to  all  sorts  of  stuff,  and  he'd  win  all  the 
old  idjut's  got." 

Topeka  began  to  laugh.  "  'Member  the  guy  we  trimmed 

259 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

out  in  Anaconda?"  he  asked,  "the  one  who  knew  it  all? 
You  see  this  one  lets  Jim  win  five  bucks  at  the  bank,  to 
start  us  all,  and  we  lose  forty  before  a  party  tips  me  it's 
a  bunk  game.  So  we  goes  outside  and  comes  back  later 
with  a  roll  and  beat  him  good." 

"How?"  inquired  Jessie,  curiously. 

"The  old  copper  on  and  copper  off,"  answered  Mr. 
Allegretti.  "I  knew  the  first  fellow  who  ever  tried  it, 
and  brought  it  East  here." 

"Here's  a  funny  gag.  Just  thought  of  it,"  exclaimed 
Topeka,  pulling  something  out  of  his  coat  pocket.  "Some 
guy  gives  our  solo  cornet  these  to-night,  and  he  give  'em 
to  me  for  a  kid.  They're  crooked,  but  you  can't  tell  it." 
He  displayed  a  pair  of  amber  dice.  Birdie  suggested 
that  it  might  be  well  to  use  them  on  Mr.  de  Shine. 

"He's  a  crook  himself,  all  right,"  returned  Topeka, 
thoughtfully.  "I  was  told  yesterday  that  he  used  to  keep 
a  gamblin'  house  somewhere,  but  a  man  got  sore  and 
shot  him  up  once,  and  it  scared  him  out  of  the  business. 
If  I  was  Maggie  I'd  kick  him  out  mighty  pronto." 

Minnie  was  rolling  the  dice  on  the  floor.  "I  made  seven 
three  times.  Is  that  good  or  bad?"  she  asked.  Topeka 
gravely  said  it  depended  what  she  was  trying  to  make  in 
the  noble  game  of  craps. 

The  entire  party  gayly  sat  upon  the  floor  to  watch  To- 
peka operate  with  the  amber  dice.  "Bet  a  nickel  you 
don't  seven!"  cried  Mr.  Allegretti. 

"Took!"  replied  Topeka,  rolling  the  dice  out.  Seven 
resulted,  at  which  he  examined  the  dice  closely  under 
the  light.  "Here's  a  laugh,"  said  he.  "It's  all  sevens, 
no  matter  how  they  turn  up." 

At  that  instant  a  loud  knock  sounded.  It  was  Mr.  de 
Shine,  more  odorous  than  ever,  after  a  nightcap,  or 
several. 

"Well,  well !"  said  he  jovially,  while  they  stared  at  him, 
"having  a  little  game,  eh  ?  I  was  up  turning  out  the  gas 
in  the  halls  and  saw  the  light.  You  see,  I  never  go  to  bed 
till  late.  Any  chance  to  get  in?" 

Minnie's  first  idea  was  to  indignantly,  order  the  smelly 
360 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

intruder  out,  but  she  glanced  at  Topeka,  whose  face  wore 
a  beaming  smile. 

"You  can  if  the  girls  don't  mind,  old  pal,"  he  said, 
cordially,  "but  just  you  and  me.  They'll  look  on." 

Mr.  Allegretti  understood,  and  so  did  Birdie,  who  was 
a  lady  of  much  experience.  She  nudged  Jessie.  "Here's 
where  he  gets  it  good  and  plenty,"  she  whispered  exult- 
ingly.  "I  just  hope  Topeka  stings  him  for  all  he's  got." 

The  boss  declared  that  if  there  was  anything  he  liked 
it  was  a  dice  game  where  it  was  all  friendly. 

"How  much  you  goin'  to  shoot  ?"  he  desired  to  know. 

"Oh,  shoot  you  a  dollar,"  said  Topeka,  carelessly. 
"How  'bout  it?" 

The  boss  was  somewhat  heavy  to  get  down  upon  the 
floor,  but  he  squatted  there  finally,  landing  with  a  groan. 
Something  rattled  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  the  moment 
Mr.  Allegretti  heard  it  he  showed  a  lively  wish  to  get  as 
near  Mr.  de  Shine  as  possible. 

.  The  game  began.  They  were  using  Topeka's  dice,  and 
in  throwing  for  first  shot  he  got  that  privilege.  Mr.  de 
Shine's  hand  had  sought  his  coat  pocket,  and  Mr.  Alle- 
gretti reflected  that  when  seated  on  the  front  steps  he 
had  worn  no  coat.  Stealthily  the  hand  came  out,  holding 
a  handkerchief.  And  it  held  also  a  pair  of  amber  dice, 
but  this  Mr.  Allegretti  did  not  know.  He  merely  har- 
bored a  vague  suspicion.  And  he  became  nervous  over 
Topeka,  for  he  dimly  recollected  hearing  that  two  sets 
of  dice  were  needed  to  skin  people — one  for  the  victim, 
with  a  scarcity  of  the  useful  seven,  and  the  other  for  the 
exclusive  use  of  the  person  conducting  the  skinning  bee. 

When,  after  Mr.  de  Shine  was  $9  out,  Topeka  passed 
the  dice  over,  Mr.  Allegretti  could  not  see  but  that  the 
enemy  had  an  equal  chance  with  his  friend.  The  ladies 
were  greatly  excited.  Birdie  explained  it  to  the  other 
two.  She  was  also  puzzled  about  the  crooked  dice.  With 
a  graceful  sweep  Mr.  de  Shine  threw  them  out.  Ace- 
deuce  resulted,  and  he  lost  a  bet,  but  retained  the  dice. 

Topeka  was  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  on  the  other's  hands, 
and  so  was  Mr.  Allegretti.  Now,  when  the  dice  had  been 

261 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

thrown  over  to  the  boss  they  had  shone  in  the  gas  light. 
They  were  a  clear  amber  and  quite  pretty.  Mr.  de  Shine 
threw  again  and  eleven  came  out.  Mr.  Allegretti  started 
in  surprise.  The  dice  seemed  darker  and  they  were  dull 
looking,  although  amber. 

The  boss  won  seven  bets  and  lost  the  dice.  "Double 
it  ?"  asked  Topeka.  "Better  make  it  $2  a  crack." 

"G'wan,"  agreed  the  boss,  producing  a  roll. 

Then  Topeka  got  busy.  He  threw  sevens  and  elevens 
until  the  boss  gasped,  for  each  cost  the  latter  $2  from 
his  big  roll. 

"That's  passin'  some,  that  is,"  said  Mr.  Allegretti. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Birdie,  much  engrossed.  "Bet- 
ter'n  my  Sam  could  do,  it  really  is.  Another  seven !" 

The  party  unconsciously  raised  their  voices.  Twister 
and  Bender  awakened,  down  the  hall,  each  draped  a 
sheet  over  his  pa  jama-clad  form  and  sailed  out  to  ascer- 
tain the  cause  of  the  racket.  They  were  invited  to  sit  on 
the  floor  and  watch  the  combat.  Bill  Bender  declared 
he'd  never  seen  such  luck  as  Topeka  possessed.  At  last 
the  dice  went  back  to  the  rueful  boss.  And  just  as  he 
crooked  his  hand  to  throw  Mr.  Allegretti  seized  it. 

"Thief!  Robber!"  he  roared,  swatting  the  back  of  the 
boss's  stick  hand  with  his  own  left.  "Palmin'  another 
pair,  are  you,  you  old  buzzard?" 

Four  amber  dice  fell  out  of  the  boss's  hand.  He  aimed 
a  blow  at  Mr.  Allegretti,  but  Mr.  Bender,  in  most  un- 
sporting manner,  walloped  hm  on  the  head  from  behind 
with  Topeka's  clarinet  case.  Birdie  grabbed  the  money 
lying  in  a  loose  heap,  while  all  the  ladies  screeeched  loudly, 
as  ladies  will  to  add  to  pleasurable  excitement. 

"He  was  ringin'  in  his  own!"  shouted  Mr  Twister  in- 
dignantly. "You  old  snake !" 

The  boss  got  to  his  feet.  "I'll  fix  you !"  he  yelled.  "Get 
outer  my  house,  and  get  now !" 

"Cheatin'  people,  are  you  ?"  resumed  Mr.  Twister,  fear- 
lessly. "I'll  have  you  pinched,  you  loafer !" 

A  shrill  yelping  announced  that  Mrs.  de  Shine  and 
262 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

Fido  were  coming  upstairs  at  a  swift  pace.     The  door 
burst  open. 

The  Property  Man,  long  the  oldest  boarder,  bearing  a 
revolver,  was  with  the  pale  and  trembling  landlady,  who 
tightly  clasped  her  snarling,  precious  poodle. 

"Here,  what's  the  row?"  demanded  the  former. 
"What's  all  this?" 

Mr.  de  Shine  dashed  at  the  Property  Man  furiously. 
Violently  his  doubled  fist  shot  out,  but  the  latter  was  a 
handy  fellow  in  a  mixup,  and  he  dodged  instantly,  and 
as  suddenly  cracked  the  boss's  head  with  the  revolver 
butt. 

"He's  bein'  killed !  Yer  a-killin'  my  husband !"  squealed 
Mrs.  de  Shine  in  anguish.  Mr.  de  Shine  sank  into  a 
flabby  heap  against  the  McDoodle  Sisters'  bed.  The  up- 
roar was  terrific. 

"Is  he  dead?"  queried  the  fallen  gladiator's  wife. 

The  Property  Man  spoke.  "Not  by  a  damn  sight,"  said 
he,  "and  see  here.  Onct  before  I  split  you  and  him  out, 
an'  got  smashed  with  a  plate  for  takin'  your  part.  Just 
now  you  said  you'd  give  anything  to  lose  him.  If  that 
brag  goes,  I'll  kick  him  so  far  he'll  never  come  back,  but 
if  you're  four-flushin'  say  so,  'cause  I  won't  stand  no 
monkey  business." 

"Mista  Johnson,"  she  said  earnestly,  "it  goes !  Get  him 
out  and  the  bridal  chamber's  yours  fur  six  a  week  fur 
life,  an'  it's  a  room  I  kin  get  fifteen  fur  any  old  time !" 

Assisted  by  all  the  gentlemen,  the  property  man  laid 
hold  of  William  de  Shine,  who  opened  a  bleary  eye  and 
then  began  to  sob.  "You  ain't  got  any  kick,"  he  wept. 
"You  win  a  bunch  of  my  money,  an'  how  I  dunno.  Ef 
I'm  ast  for  an  opinion,  I  b  lieve  your  own  dice  was  phoney. 
I  never  had  no  real  chance  to  use  mine,  let  alone  switchin' 
'em.  Mebbe  I  have  picked  up  a  little  change,  but  you're 
ahead.  Lemme  'lone." 

"He's  a  robber!"  said  Topeka.  Mr.  Allegretti  was 
trying  not  to  laugh.  The  shocked  newcomers  declared 
Mr.  de  Shine  a  low  villain.  Mrs.  de  Shine  recovered  her 
old-time  form. 

263 


TOPEKA  THOMPSON'S  EDUCATED  DICE. 

"Yuh  vamp,  Bill  de  Shine!"  she  threatened.  "Show 
that  map  of  yer's  here  again  and  I'll  have  yuh  locked  up, 
sure's  I'm  here!" 

Mr.  de  Shine  said  in  that  case  he  would  go.  It  was  a 
hard  deal  to  give  a  man  at  2  A.  M.,  and  some  day  she'd 
be  sorry.  The  entire  top  floor  went  down  stairs,  watched 
him  pack  his  two  suit  cases  and  depart.  Topeka  brill- 
iantly suggested  a  supper  for  every  one,  and  he  would 
pay  the  bill. 

With  Mr.  Allegretti,  he  went  after  the  liquid  part  of 
the  meal.  The  house  larder  was  to  furnish  some  of  the 
food.  The  two  returned,  bearing  many  bottles  and  par- 
cels, bought  at  the  saloon  and  restaurant  near  by  in  Four- 
teenth street. 

"Fill  the  glasses !"  cried  Topeka.  "  'Tain't  every  night 
we  drink  champagne,  folks!" 

"Yer  the  fust  one  that  ever  beat  that  wretch,  Mista 
Thompson,"  said  the  landlady.  "Gawd  knows  I  drink 
luck  tuh  all  yuh  boys  fur  riddin'  me  of  that  pest." 

Of  the  original  party,  none  gave  away  the  secret  of 
the  lucky  amber  dice. 

"You  see,  the  fellow  gave  me  two  pairs,"  said  Topeka 
in  a  whisper  to  Birdie,  "and  I  kept  handin'  him  the  dead 
ones." 

"Ef  you  ain't  a  clip,"  she  returned,  admiringly.  "My ! 
what  a  night!" 

The  Property  Man  drank  thirstily.  Then  he  addressed 
Topeka.  "I  s'pose  you  don't  feel  like  rentin'  them  dice 
of  yourn?"  he  asked.  "I  think  I  could  use  'em  in  my 
business." 


In    Habib's    Kitchen. 

FAT'MA,  the  black  cook  from  the  Nile,  thoughtfully 
sniffed  at  a  steaming  finger-shaped  piece  of  chopped 
mutton  tightly  wrapped  in  a  grape  leaf.  The  kitchen 
of  Habib  the  Arabian  in  Washington  street,  was  hot 
and  close,  for  Fat'ma  had  many  kettles  upon  the  big 
range,  in  which  various  savory  Oriental  dishes  were 
preparing. 

"Prett'  near  done,  Fat'ma?"  asked  Habib,  the  boss, 
"you  mak'  to  get  move  on,  plees — many  peoples  wait 
in  cafe  for  dinner."  He  looked  angry.  Fat'ma  laughed, 
and  dropped  the  meat  from  her  fork  back  into  the 
pot.  "'Scusa  me,  I  got  say  my  prayer  to  Allah,"  said 
she,  demurely. 

Abdallah,  the  acrobat,  down  in  the  Arabian  quarter 
for  a  dinner  among  his  friends,  took  the  liberty  of  one 
well  acquainted,  and  strolled  into  the  kitchen  from 
the  cafe  in  front.  "Ah,  ha,  I'm  gettin'  hungry,"  said 
he,  "hal-lo,  Habib  what  you  got  good  to  eat,  hey?" 

Fat'ma  discreetly  kept  on  praying.  A  good 
Mohammedan  should  attend  to  this  ceremony  before 
serving  the  food.  And  Habib,  though  a  Catholic 
Arab,  respected  his  excellent  servant's  feelings  too 
much  to  interrupt  her  devotions. 

Thus  Fat'ma  propitiated  Allah,  and  also  gained  time 
for  the  mutton  to  finish  stewing.  She  lengthened  the 
prayer,  with  a  coonful  eye  upon  the  pots. 

Then,  "Amen !"  said  she  loudly,  in  English,  be- 
cause all  was  ready.  Amena,  who  performs  the  dance 
du  ventre  at  fairs  and  other  places  of  entertainment, 
came  slowly  down  the  kitchen  stairs  from  above.  She 
was  one  of  Habib's  boarders.  Lalla,  the  little  whirl- 

265 


IN  HABIB'S  KITCHEN. 

wind  dancer,  followed  her.  All  gazed  interestedly  at 
Fat'ma  as  she  lifted  the  contents  of  the  pots  upon  platters. 
Lalla  curled  a  finger  about  a  bit  of  sour  cheese  dropped  by 
Fat'ma  in  her  haste.  "How  you  been  get  'long,  Lalla?" 
asked  Abdallah.  "How  come  you  ain't  work  now?" 
"She  too  strong  to  work !"  put  in  Amena  gaily ;  "leeve  on 
money,  eh,  Lalla?" 

"Oh,  I  ain't  broke  yet,"  replied  Lalla,  cheerfully,  "an' 
I  got  hoosban'.  That's  more'n  you."  Even  Fat'ma 
snickered  at  this  retort,  for  Amelia's  faithless  husband 
had  fled  with  a  bleached  blonde  in  a  "Streets  of  Cairo" 
show. 

Yousouf  the  Turk  put  out  aside  the  besmoked  red 
calico  curtain  which  divided  cafe  and  kitchen. 

"Hah!  What,  all  in  here?"  said  he,  jovially.  "Me 
an'  George  Romay  was  sittin'  outside  an'  hear  you 
talk."  "Say,  thees  is  fine,"  said  Abdallah,  "how  you 
say,  if  we  all  eat  in  kitchen,  lak'  old  times?  Hey 
Haibib?" 

"Sure,  go  'head,"  answered  Habib.  "Fat'ma  will 
breeng  grub.  All  plees  set  down  on  couch,  an'  have 
plent'  room.  But  first  peop'  outside  must  eat."  His 
guests  crowded  laughingly  into  places  on  the  two  wide 
couches  in  the  corner  opposite  the  range.  George 
Romay,  the  Algerian  camel  driver,  appeared  and  amid 
the  squeals  of  both  ladies  squeezed  in  between  them 
and  ordered  Habib  to  fetch  a  drink  of  arrack  all  around. 

As  they  awaited  dinner,  sipping  the  white  liquor, 
Habib  sighed  heavily.  "What  for  you  mak'  such 
sad  breath?"  inquired  Lalla.  "Twent'  year  ago  to- 
night I  suffer  mooch,"  said  Habib.  He  was  urged  to  say 
on.  "My  father  ain't  got  much  bankroll,"  began  Habib, 
"ees  poor  man  in  Arabia.  So  when  I'm  young  I  go  'way 
to  Algiers  an'  git  place  to  peek  grapes  in  grape  arbor  for 
reech  man.  I  mak  two  francs  a  day,  an'  think  I'm  prett' 
lucky.  Eet  is  long  tam  ago.  You  lak  hear  how  I  got 
in  the  beezness?" 

"Forty  cent,"  said  George  Romay,  in  surprise.  "You 
ain't  call  it  mooch  now,  hey?"  Habib  smiled,  It 

266 


IN  HABIB'S  KITCHEN. 

was  'Common  talk  that  he  had  a  great  deal  of  money. 
"I  peek,  peek,  in  sun  till  am  ver'  tired,"  he  continued. 
"One  day  beautiful  lady  come  walk  with  womans; 
black  lak  Fat'ma.  She  got  veil  over  face,  but  let 
drop  leetle  when  see  me,  and  show  oh  so  sweet  face.' 

"She  mak'  mash/'  observed  Amena,  "you  bet!' 

"Every  day  she  walk  past/'  said  Habib,  "an'  one 
tarn  she  smile  on  me,  Habib,  who  ain't  got  no 
money,  but  lofe  her  mooch.  She  is  Zuleika,  the  Doss' 
daughter.  She  prett'  as  pict'.  Well,  I  know  I  got 
learn  mooch  biff  or  can  spik  to  her,  becos  I  don't  spik. 
French,  an'  she  don't  know  Arabian.  I  kip  on  save 
an'  save  my  centimes,  an'  some  time  don't  eat  only 
grapes  an'  buy  French  book  lak  you  call  prim-er. 

"Nother  grape  peeker;  he  help  me.  In  four  month 
I  learn  write  lofe  letter  and  say  how  the  sun  go  out 
when  she  pass  by  an'  moon  is  dead  wan  beside  her, 
the  beautiful.  So  I  give  to  black  womans  the  letter, 
an'  then  I  wait. 

Next  day  up  at  window  I  see  white  veil  wave  and 
wave,  an'  behind  is  Zuleika.  I  think  it  funny  she 
don't  come  out,  but  not  come. 

"It  get  be  mebbe  'bout  6  o'clock,  an'  man  spik  to 
me.  'You,  Hab,  want  mak'  beeg  mon/  he  say;  'then 
come  'long.'  The  man  who  row  boat  to  ship,  he  ver' 
bad  with  ache  in  legs  an'  can't  go.  You  beeg  and 
strong  row  boat  to-night.'  I  go  long  to  dock  where 
grapes  is  load  in  HI'  boat  to  take  to  ship.  Prett'  soon 
I  row  hard  and  we  soon  get  there  with  grapes. 

"They  holler  for  me  to  come  up  ladder  for  minute, 
when  grapes  is  load  on  deck.  They  leave  'em  all  loose 
outside,  not  down  b'low,  see?  and  sail  to  next  port, 
where  boss  has  beeg  wine  mak*  in  place.  When  I'm 
up  some  beeg  guy  grab  me,  heet  me  in  nut  from  be- 
hind, an'  nex'  I  know  eet's  ver'  dark  atid  ship  rock, 
rock  an'  mak'  beeg  noise. 

"Peop'  come  keek'  me,  and  I  can't  help,  becos  am 
tied.  Nex'  day  we  get  to  town.  I  never  know  eet's 
name,  and  that  night  I'm  put  on  beegar  ship  and 

267 


IN  HABIB'S  KITCHEN. 

start  for  'Merica.  We  get  out  HI'  -way,  and  sailor 
man  takes  off  ropes,  give  me  beeg  drink  grog  and  say: 
'How  you  feel  now,  you  lose  your  gal,  hey?  Mebbe 
now  you  think  cat  bet'  not  look  at  king?'  Them  is 
first  English  word  I  have  ever  hear. 

"Fin'ly  I  find  man  who  spik  so  I  can  onderstand, 
and  he  tell  me  this  what  I  get  for  mak'  lofe  to  boss' 
daughter — 'but  t'ain't  boss'  daughter;  eet's  his  wife! 
But  I  not  know — it  show  you  how  all  wimmens  is 
liars,  becos  she  con  me  and  then  give  him  my  lofe 
letter,  and  laff.  All  right.  I  not  say  mooch,  but 
think  and  get  prett'  mad,  you  bet.  Prett'  soon  the 
captain  come  say  to  me:  'You  strong  feller.  How 
you  lak  be  sailor?'  Well,  I  not  lak,  but  what  can  do? 
I  work  my  way  here,  and  lick  every  man  on  ship,  becos 
am  strong. 

"When  I  get  here  to  Noo  York  I  got  four  dollar, 
an'  met  Abdallah,  this  same  Abdallah.  He  got  beeg  tum- 
blin'  act.  That's  how  I  get  be  best  understander  in 
acrobat  beezness.  But  wimmens  mak'  always 
trouble.  I'm  prett'  lucky  to  get  out  so  good,  I  guess." 


The  Love  of  One-Arm  Annie. 

IT  was  night  in  Chinatown.  The  damp,  hot  river 
breeze,  mingled  with  the  scents  from  a  dozen  kitchens 
wherein  chop  suey  was  frying.  Inside  Murphy's 
concert  hall  trade  was  very  dull.  The  pianist,  his 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  up,  his  neck  bared,  listlessly  beat 
out  a  tune.  A  couple  of  perspiring  women  waltzed 
together,  swapping  their  troubles  as  they  danced. 

The  inevitable  sailors,  the  prop  and  mainstay  of  the 
concert  hall,  sat  in  a  noisy  bunch  at  one  table.  They 
had  selected  as  the  object  of  their  combined  attentions 
One-Arm  Annie,  who  sat,  queenlike,  in  the  midst  of 
her  boisterous  court. 

The  other  women  in  the  place  watched  her  sourly. 
It  was  unjust  that  this  crippled  member  of  their  sister- 
hood should  have  so  many  gentlemen  to  buy  her 
drinks,  while  they  sat  alone.  But  Annie  had  taken 
the  sailors'  fancy.  One  of  them  threw  her  a  silver 
dollar,  jokingly. 

"Tell  us  the  story  of  your  life  for  that,"  said  he, 
gaily. 

"Onct,"  she  replied,  obligingly,  pouching  the  coin, 
"I  lives  in  the  country,  see?  They  ain't  nawtin'  too 
good  fur  me  in  them  days.  But  I  gets  a  job  in  a 
factory,  and  then  I  lose  me  wing  on  the  railroad,  an' 
comes  along  here.  They  calls  me  One-Arm  Annie, 
an'  I  been  here  ever  since.  That's  all." 

The  sailors  laughed  heartily  and  ordered  another 
drink.  One  said  it  was  slow  in  there.  Immediately 
the  rest  agreed  that  it  was,  and  they  left,  with  scarcely 
a  word  of  farewell.  Annie  had  amused  them,  and  she 
had  a  dollar  for  it.  That  evened  the  score. 

269 


THE  LOVE  OF  ONE-ARM  ANNIE. 

"I  fought  mebbe  youse  was  goin'  to  elope  wit'  one 
o'  yer  pals,"  taunted  a  flabby,  pale-eyed  blonde. 

"I'm  goin'  tuh  meet  him  at  the  church!"  retorted 
Annie. 

The  pianist,  with  a  grin,  played  a  bar  of  the  song 
of  that  name. 

"Don't  let  'em  kid  you,  Annie,"  he  called.  "I  don't 
see  nobody  astin'  them  what  they'll  have." 

She  went  out  into  Pell  street,  where  groups  of 
Chinese  and  loafing  whites  stood  about.  A  string  of 
earnest  "sightseers"  trailed  up  the  street,  following 
a  blatant  guide. 

The  big  copper  greeted  her  amiably.  "My,  you're 
all  dudied  up,"  he  said. 

Annie  giggled.  She  had  on  a  new  hat  and  this 
flattery  was  pleasant  to  hear.  She  spent  the  evening 
visiting  the  joints  of  the  district.  She  still  had  the 
dollar  intact  at  midnight,  because  different  persons 
had  bought  her  a  drink  and  a  sandwich  here  and  there. 

It  was  her  idea  of  a  lucky  night.  She  had  drunk, 
eaten  and  she  had  a  dollar,  and  so  decided  to  seek  the 
little  room  in  Mott  street,  where  she  lived  with  another 
female  derelict,  and  go  to  sleep. 

She  had  taken  too  many  doses  of  bad  whisky  to  feel 
lonely  as  she  trudged  along  Mott  street,  her  feet 
sounding  hollowly  on  the  pavement.  In  a  doorway 
a  man  stood  as  she  passed.  The  white  glare  of  an 
arc  light  shone  on  his  face  and,  passing  him  once, 
she  turned  to  look  again. 

"Frank !"  she  gasped,  stopping  short.     'It's  him !" 

In  the  sodden  mind  of  One-Arm  Annie  there  dwelt 
a  picture,  even  after  ten  years.     A  little  house  on  a 
street  where  lofty  elms  made  it  cool  and  dark  on  the 
porch,  was  in  the  picture.     An  old  woman  rocked  con- 
tentedly, sewing  at  something.     A  slim  young  fellow 
in  illcut  clothes  sat  upon  the  steps,  and  told  a  girl  in 
a  white   dress   that   just   as   soon   as   he'd   made   his 
fortune  in  New  York  he'd  come  back  to  his  Annie. 
So  now  they  met  again,  and  the  picture  would  fade 
270 


THE  LOVE  OF  ONE-ARM  ANNIE. 

in  the  face  of  reality.     "Hello,  Annie !"  he  said.     "Say, 
ain't  this  the  limit?" 

Annie  felt  no  regret  that  his  tone  was  not  more 
tragic.  Why  should  it  be?  There  they  were,  and  it 
couldn't  be  helped. 

"Where  youse  been  all  this  time?"  she  inquired 
calmly.  "What's  yer  lay?" 

"I  was  makin'  good  money  pullin'  off  a  poke  every 
few  days,"  he  returned,  "but  the  bulls  won't  let  a  guy 
have  a  chance.  I  gets  pinched  an'  blows  my  fall  money 
to  get  sprung.  I  ain't  et  for  two  days." 

The  picture  intruded  on  Annie's  mind  again.  A 
vague  wonder  came  with  it  to  know  just  how  much 
different  she  seemed  now  than  long  ago.  She  had 
been  sweet  faced  and  rosy  then.  Now  she  was  soiled 
in  mind  and  body — but  so  was  he. 

"Ain't  youse  got  no  pals  to  go  to?"  she  asked. 
"None  of  'em  sticks  when  you're  a  dead  one,"  he  said 
bitterly.  She  noted  his  face  was  very  white  and  he 
trembled. 

"I — I'm  a  dyin'  for  a  shot!"  he  went  on  chokingly. 
"They  got  me  wingin'.  I  ain't  had  none  the  old  white 
stuff  for  two  days." 

"So  yer  agin  the  dope?"  she  said.  "I  used  to  smoke 
onct  in  a  while,  'but  I  didn't  never  git  no  habit.  The 
morphine  gag's  worse." 

He  pushed  up  his  coat  sleeve.  The  arm  was  scarred 
m  many  places  from  the  morphine  needle.  "My  legs 
is  worse,"  he  remarked. 

Annie  sighed.  There  was  the  dollar.  It  would 
give  him  relief.  Food  and  a  "shot"  or  two  would 
make  him  happy.  A  tender  pity  was  in  her  heart. 
Looking  at  him  the  squalid  present  was  indistinct, 
and  she  saw  the  love  of  her  youth. 

"Here!"  she  said,  and  put  the  coin,  warmed  by  her 
hand,  into  his  cold  one. 

She  began  to  cry  forlornly. 

"Say,  you  ain't  a  goin*  to  regret  it!"  he  declared. 
"Come  on  wit'  me." 

271 


THE  LOVE  OF  ONE-ARM  ANNIE. 

She  waited,  fearful  all  the  time  that  he  would  not 
come  back,  while  he  went  into  a  near-by  drug  store. 
She  watched  him  in  the  rear  of  the  shop  jab  the  "gun" 
into  his  flesh.  He  took  three,  and  then  rejoined  her. 

''You  saved  my  life,  Goldie!"  he  declared. 

"Goldie"  had  been  his  old  name  for  her.  The  gold 
of  her  hair  was  nearly  gone  now,  replaced  by  an  ugly 
gray.  They  turned  into  a  little  restaurant  and  ate 
beef  stew  together.  He  talked  continually,  but  she 
was  silent.  The  utter  uselessness  of  wishing  for  what 
could  not  be  sickened  and  frightened  her.  For  the 
first  time  she  wished  to  die  and  told  him  so,  brokenly. 

"Die?"  he  echoed.  "I  guess  not!  Why,  you're  wit' 
me  now.  I'm  a  good  hustler  when  I'm  right,  and  I 
know  a  place,  now  I'm  fixed  up,  where  I  kin  go  get  a 
piece  of  change  to-night.  Come  on.  You're  wit*  me 
from  now  on.  I'll  take  care  of  you."  His  tone  was 
tender. 

A  delightful  peace  enveloped  her.  Together  they 
started  out,  One-Arm  Annie  and  her  lover  of  olden 
days.  Neither  saw  the  dirt  and  pitiful  poverty  ol  the 
other.  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  "You're 
wit'  me,"  he  repeated. 

Annie  glanced  in  a  glass  as  they  went  by.  "I  got 
to  get  my  hair  blondined  when  we  get  money,"  said 
she. 


The  Way  It  Goes  on  Broadway. 

THE  angel  had  invited  Madelyne  to  lunch,  and,  al- 
though she  had  made  other  plans  for  the  day,  she 
smiled  upon  him  fondly  and  swore  he  was  a  perfect 
pet  to  think  of  it.  In  the  rotunda  of  the  Barking 
House,on  West  Thirty-ninth  street,  where  all  the 
show  folks  and  sporting  people  stopped — if  they  had 
the  price — Madelyne  and  the  angel  ran  into  Erne 
Summers  and  a  friend  of  Effie's  family. 

The  friend  had  asked  her  to  lunch,  and  he  knew  Mr. 
de  Mar,  the  angel.  The  angel  fussed  around  in  stocks, 
owned  a  stable  of  fancy  road  horses  and  didn't  care 
what  he  did  with  his  money.  That  was  why  Mad- 
elyne was  going  to  lunch  with  him. 

"Ask  'em  to  join  us,"  she  whispered.  If  Effie  was 
there  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  The  angel  obeyed. 

In  the  Barking  House  Restaurant  were  many  nice 
mirrors.  By  gazing  into  the  one  set  in  the  wall  by 
their  table  Madelyne  could  observe  the  entire  room. 
There  was  apparently  no  one  else  in  the  restaurant 
but  the  four. 

They  sat  near  a  window  where  it  was  light,  but 
down  at  the  other  end,  in  the  half  gloom,  two  men 
were  having  a  couple  of  chops  and  a  pot  of  tea.  They 
used  no  butter  on  their  toast,  and  the  waiter  who 
brought  their  modest  meal  told  the  barkeeper  out  in 
the  grill  on  the  Broadway  side  that  "Terrible"  Danny 
Reilly,  the  famous  Western  middleweight,  and  his  pal, 
\\#ally  Plimmer,  the  English  feather,  were  inside. 

The  scrapping  gentlemen  were  down  from  their 
training  quarters  at  White  Plains  to  do  a  little  match- 
making. It  was  Mr.  Plimmer  who  first  noted  the 

273 


THE  WAY  IT  GOES  ON  BROADWAY 

party  by  the  window.  "Blime,  if  it's  not  oar  little  pal 
from  the  burlesque  show,"  said  he,  closely  observing: 
the  vivacious  Effie,  "and  with  some  swells.  I  shouldn't 
have  minded  buyin'  her  a  bit  of  lunch." 

"She's  a  good  feller,"  commented  Danny,  crunching 
dry  toast  as  he  carefully  watered  their  tea;  "a.  nice 
little  gal." 

"An*  allus  the  lady,"  went  on  Mr.  Plimmer,  thought- 
fully. "One  of  them  blokes  is  a  noisy  bounder."  He 
referred  to  the  angel,  who  had  downed  a  quart  of 
champagne  by  himself,  and  was  feeling  very  cheery. 

He  chucked  the  fair,  and  Titian-locked  Madelyne  un- 
der her  fat  chin,  and  surveyed  her  voluptuous  figure 
with  pride.  "I  bought  her  that  jewelry."  he  remarked 
to  Effie's  old  family  friend.  "She  don't  never  need 
to  go  back  to  the  stage  if  she  don't  wanter!" 

"Quit,  now!"  admonished  the  lady,  playfully.  "I 
hope  he  chokes,"  she  added  in  a  vicious  whisper  to 
Effie',  who  winked  sagaciously.  Effie  had  her  meal 
ticket  where  he'd  feed  from  the  hand,  and  she  had  a 
nice  new  jab  in  a  Broadway  show,  so  she  had  no  cause 
for  worry. 

The  angel  began  a  loud  conversation  with  Effie's 
friend  about  how  much  money  he  blew  in  every  day, 
and  the  market.  The  friend  listened  respectfully,  be- 
cause he  hoped  to  nail  his  host  for  a  certain  scheme 
of  his  own.  Madelyne  was  bored.  Effie,  who  was 
small,  near-sighted,  and  always  figuring  out  iust  how 
she  could  scratch  up  the  cash  for  the  old  home's 
mortgage,  out  of  a  salary  already  drawn  ahead,  was 
busily  adding  up  figures  on  the  tablecloth.  The  scrap 
gentlemen's  waiter  approached.  He  caught  Madelyne's 
eye  and  displayed  a  note.  He  made  a  sign  toward 
the  end  of  the  room.  In  the  glass  she  saw  two 
smooth-faced,  smiling  young  men  bowing  and  waving 
friendly  hands.  Note  and  signals  were  meant  for 
Effie. 

Effie's  friend  saw  them,  too,  but  he  was  a  foxy  boy. 
He  supposed  they  were  giving  Effie  the  high  sign, 

274 


THE  WAY  IT  GOES  ON  BROADWAY 

and  he  felt  about  with  his  foot  until  he  thought  he 
had  found  her  foot.  Then  he  kicked  it,  warningly. 
If  she  didn't  stop  flirting  he'd  make  her  wish  she  had. 
She  looked  up  once  and  smiled  abstractedly  at  him. 

"I  wonder  what  he's  sore  about  now?"  she  asked 
herself,  noting  his  scowl.  The  angel  boomed  away. 
But  his  eye  was  on  Madelyne,  though  she  didn't 
know  it.  She  was  sweetly  grinning  into  the  glass  at 
her  mashes.  Effie's  friend  also  noticed  her  and  sup- 
posed she  was  assisting  Erne  at  some  flirtatious 
game.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  doubt  the  lovely 
Madelyne  who  apparently,  adored  her  kind  angel. 

He  kicked  the  foot  again.  The  angel  arose  suddenly. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  kick  my  foot  again,  sir!"  lie 
shouted,  excitedly.  "Trying  to  steal  her,  art  you? 
Well,  you  have  the  wrong  foot!" 

EfBe's  friend  had  been  kicking  the  angel's  foot 
all  the  time! 

Madelyne  and  Effie  arose,  Effie  much  bewildered  and 
the  former  frightened.  She  might  lose  the  angel,  if 
he  had  seen  her  actions.  But  the  angel  thought  her 
glances  had  been  for  his  guest. 

EfBe's  friend  got  mad.  "Don't  you  dare  speak  to 
me  like  that,  you  long  nosed  dub."  he  replied,  ungrate- 
fully, having  eaten  the  angel's  food.  "I  don't  want 
her!" 

It  was  then  that  Effie  spied  her  old  friends.  She 
immediately  waved  a  cordial  greeting. 

"Why,  they've  been  lookin'  at  me  an'  me  never 
knowin'  it !"  said  she  to  Madelyne,  while  their  escorts 
argued. 

"You?  Excuse  me,"  replied  Madelyne,  firmly, 
"they're  a'lookin'  at  me!" 

The  angel  heard. 

"Oh,  you  hussy!"  he  yelled,  furiously,  "takin'  up 
with  two  fighters,  eh?  I'll  fix  you!" 

Effie  screamed  and  Madelyne  did  a  fine  property 
faint.  Terrible  Danny  and  Mr.  Plummer  had  been 
watching  in  agitated  silence.  Now  they  acted.  They 

275 


fancied  the  angel  was  about  to  attack  Effie.  And 
they  were  not  bum  fighters. 

"  'Ere !  Lie  a  hand  on  'er,  old  cock,  an'  I'll  rip  yer 
bloomin'  well  open!"  With  these  words  Mr.  Plim- 
mer  gallantly  charged.  He  shot  a  fist  like  a'  brick 
into  the  angel's  open  mouth,  and  with  this  world- 
known  left  ruined  $400  worth  of  skilled  work  by 
Prince  Henry's  own  dentist. 

Effie's  friend  endeavored  to  protest.  "Get  away, 
you  little  runt!"  he  cried,  bravely.  Little  runt!  Mr. 
Plimmer  laughed  joyously,  and  made  for  his  victim. 

"Help!  Assistance!  Murder!"  shrieked  Madelyne, 
forgetting  she  was  in  a  swoon.  Effie  was  having  a 
fine  time.  She  had  borrowed  fifty  earlier  from  the 
friend,  so  she  didn't  care  what  became  of  him.  A 
hand  touched  her  arm.  "I've  got  your  coat,"  said 
Terrible  Danny,  softly.  "Come  on,  before  we're 
pinched !" 

He  grabbed  Effie's  hand  and  they  sped  down  into 
the  gloom,  through  the  empty  bar  and  out  into  the 
street.  Four  policemen  were  running  towards  the 
other  entrance,  around  the  corner. 

Inside,  Mr.  Plimmer  had  walloped  the  belligerent 
friend.  Then  he  discreetly  took,  refuge  under  a  table. 
The  sympathetic  waiter  pulled  the  cloth  further  over 
it,  just  as  the  police  came  in  and  carted  off  both  the 
angel  and  his  guest. 

/  "Heavens!  I've  lost  'em  all!"  wailed  the  lovely 
Madelyne,  sitting  up  in  dismay.  Mr.  Plimmer  crawled 
out. 

"Seein'  as  a  fren'  of  mine  knows  a  fren'  of  yours, 
my  dear,"  said  he,  pleasantly,  "wot  sye  we  blow  the 
plice?  No  spoofing;  I'm  a  gent,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  then,  get  a  cab,  quick!  He  may  come  back!" 
cried  Madelyne. 

"Not  while  the  bobby  'as  him,"  said  Mr.  Plimmer. 
Outside  they  found  Terrible  Danny  and  Effie. 

"Oh,  bully!  Let's  all  go  driving!"  said  Effie,  "but 
wasn't  it  fun?" 

276 


THE  WAY  IT  GOES  ON  BROADWAY 

"By  Jove!  I've  got  'is  bally  at!"  Mr.  Plimmer  was 
looking  inside  the  derby  hat  he  had  hastily  picked  up. 
A  hundred  dollar  bill  was  neatly  laid  inside  the  band. 
The  angel  had  kept  a  holdout 

"He's  a  perfect  pig!"  said  Madelyne,  referring  to 
this  wronged  man. 

"A  reg'lar  bad  'un!"  agreed  Mr.  Plimmer.  putting 
the  bill  quietly  away.  He  hailed  two  hansoms. 

'"Ere  we  are,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  feeling  a  bit 
parky  to-day  meself." 


Romance  of  an  Acrobat  and  a 
Darning  Needle. 

The  acrobat  was  puzzled.  The  burlesque  show  had 
been  on  the  road  two  months  and  as  yet  he  had  still  to 
unravel  a  mystery  which  had  varied  the  monotony  of  two 
shows  a  day  and  commenced  the  first  week  they  were  out. 
Some  person  had  taken  charge  of  the  acrobat's  wardrobe, 
and  where  once  his  grip  and  hotel  trunk  held  a  collection 
of  motley  garments,  buttonless  and  in  constant  danger  of 
ripping  still  further  apart,  he  now  luxuriated  in  the  pos- 
session of  neatly  darned  socks,  whole  underwear,  and 
well  brushed  clothing. 

Somebody,  no  matter  where  the  troupe  stopped,  found 
a  means  to  enter  his  room  while  he  was  absent  and 
clean  up  his  belongings  daily.  Of  course  it  was  a  woman. 
That  was  a  cinch,  but  to  ascertain  her  identity  was  an- 
other affair.  No  spear  carrying  damsel  had  shown  any 
evidence  of  unusual  interest  in  the  good  looking  tumbler 
whose  act  'braced  the  olio,  and  the  two  or  three  young 
women  with  whom  he  was  on  friendly  terms  were  not  of 
a  sock  darning  cut.  They  were  too  busy  tattling  their 
various  small  jealousies,  and  copping  out  the  best  grub 
at  the  hotel  tables,  and  in  quarrelling  over  the  Johnnies 
who  once  in  a  while  managed  an  introduction  and  prof- 
fered one  of  the  invitations  to  eat  and  drink  which  the 
burlesquer  reads  about  but  seldom  meets  with. 

The  other  single  men  in  the  company  doubled  up,  but 
Jimmy  was  rather  more  particular  than  most  of  his  class, 
and  he  herded  by  himself,  preferring  solitude  to  saving 
money  with  a  room  mate.  His  mother,  back  West  in 
Nebraska,  kept  writing  him  to  quit  the  business  and  come 
home  to  help  her  raise  chickens.  She  was  sending  out 

278 


ROMANCE  OF  ACROBAT  AND  NEEDLE. 

300  baby  fowls  a  day,  hatched  by  incubators,  and  there 
was  lots  of  money  in  it. 


But  the  acrobat  had  run  away  from  home  at  twelve 
to  follow  the  circus  and  six  years  as  topmounter  with  a 
bunch  of  tumblers,  and  several  more  merging  from  a 
shine  three-a-day  act  to  a  headline  turn  which  the  bur- 
lesque managers  would  book  at  $200  a  week  for  him  and 
his  partner  isn't  good  training  for  the  simple  life,  and  he 
declined  to  go  home,  but  he  kept  promising  to  take  a  trip 
to  the  farm  and  stay  a  month  just  as  soon  as  ever  spring 
came  around  and  the  show  disbanded.  Meanwhile,  as  the 
'  show  proceeded  by  short  jumps  toward  Dakota  and  every 
day  grew  colder  than  the  one  before,  the  acrobat  actually 
fretted  over  the  unknown  visitor. 

He  wished  whoever  it  was  would  come  in  and  be 
clubby,  because  it  was  lonesome  sitting  by  a  dinky  little 
stove  in  the  bare  rooms  of  country  hotels  reading  a  week 
old  New  York  paper  by  a  bad  light.  Formerly  he  hadn't 
spent  much  time  in  his  room,  because  it  was  more  cheer- 
ful to  dig  up  the  gang  and  stand  around  the  bar  down- 
stairs swapping  lies  and  knocking  people.  But  for  a 
week,  whenever  it  wasn't  a  case  of  sleep  on  the  train 
with  one's  face  burrowed  uncomfortably  in  the  red  plush 
back  of  a  day  coach  seat  he  had  devoted  himself  to  the 
work  of  finding  out  the  sock-mender. 

He  did  a  little  gumshoe  work,  craftily  stealing  down  the 
halls,  expecting  to  catch  the  unknown  red-handed  as  he 
quickly  unlocked  the  door. 


The  things  were  aranged  as  usual,  ready  for  him  to 
dress  with  all  speed  for  the  sprint  to  the  station  at  6  in  the 
morning,  but  all  his  little  devices  failed  to  catch  the 
"ghost"  as  he  humorously  called  her  in  his  own  mind. 
He  began  to  look  over  the  fourteen  chorus  girls  and  the 
soubrette  who  came  from  Maine  and  sang  through  her 
nose.  One  was  stuck  on  the  comedian,  and  another 

279 


ROMANCE  OF  ACROBAT  AND  NEEDLE. 

was  wedded  to  a  policeman,  while  others  frankly  carried 
on  their  different  love  affairs.  There  was  one  little  trick 
who  roomed  with  a  big  blonde  from  the  Bowery,  but  she 
didn't  count  for  much.  She  had  a  good  shape,  sang  fairly 
well,  and  made  up  nicely  enough  for  her  place  in  the  back 
row,  and  Jimmy  had  never  taken  the  pains  to  look  her 
over.  He  supposed  she  had  some  fellow  who  was  the 
candy  kid  in  her  opinion,  or  perhaps  a  husband. 

Really  he  didn't  bother  about  her  at  all.  She  had  a 
cute  pert  nose  and  big  black  eyes,  but  she  didn't  chum 
around  with  the  rest  much.  He  had  about  made  up  his 
mind  that  the  sock-mender  was  a  girl  named  Dottie,  who 
hailed  from  'Frisco,  and  was  always  telling  about  what 
great  places  Zinkand's  and  the  Poodle  Dog  were,  and 
how  a  lady  could  get  treated  right  out  there.  Now,  he 
thought  of  it,  this  Dottie  girl  was  always  throwing  the 
goo-goo  lamp  on  him,  and  this  clothes  business  simply 
showed  what  a  foxy  piece  of  work  she  was.  She  knew 
he  had  money  and  made  a  good  living,  and  when  the  time 
seemed  right  she'd  be  on  hand  with  one  of  those  kind 
applause  plays  and  win  him  out  as  a  reward  for  her 
thoughtfulness. 

He  laughed  to  himself.  She  had  a  fine  chance,  that 
bleached  haired  skirt  who'd  been  playing  in  burlesque 
when  Rose  Sydell  and  May  Howard  were  new  at  it.  He 
had  a  good  mind  to  give  her  a  call  down  and  tell  her  to 
stop.  It  was  annoying  to  be  obliged  to  destroy  letters 
from  some  real  nice  girls  back  in  New  York,  who  wrote 
every  week,  just  so  some  fresh  girl  wouldn't  be  able  to 
rubber  at  'em. 

He  scowled  at  Dottie  whenever  she  looked  at  him  now, 
which  made  her  laugh.  But  the  laundry  was  done  up 
and  the  clean  stuff  put  out  as  usual,  and  when  he  spilled 
tooth  powder  all  over  the  inside  of  his  grip  and  figured, 
as  he  washed  off  his  make-up  one  night  that  he  must 
clean  the  blamed  grip  out,  she  had  beaten  him  to  it. 
Everything  was  carefully  laid  in  the  grip,  but  the  powder 
was  gone  and  the  box  rolled  up  in  a  handkerchief  to 
keep  it  from  spilling  again. 

280 


ROMANCE   OF  ACROBAT  AND   NEEDLE. 

Now  he  had  kept  an  eye  on  Dottie  from  the  time  he 
left  the  room  and  sat  opposite  her  at  supper  until  he  had 
seen  her  seated  in  the  restaurant  next  the  theatre  after 
the  show.  So  it  clearly  wasn't  she,  but  who  in  time  was 
it?  The  thing  was  past  a  joke.  He  got  down  with  his 
overcoat  still  on  and  peered  angrily  under  the  bed.  Noth- 
ing but  a  dirty  red  carpet  met  his  view  and  he  swore 
softly,  hardly  knowing  what  he  had  expected  to  find. 

But  he  had  a  scheme,  and  he  felt  sure  it  was  going  to 
work.  He  got  out  a  pair  of  black  socks  and  deliberately 
ripped  a  fine  big  hole  in  the  toe  of  one.  He  put  both 
in  his  overcoat  pocket  ready  for  use  at  Fargo,  where  they 
played  next  day,  and,  grinning  to  himself,  prepared  for 
bed. 


It  happened  that  the  blonde  from  the  Bowery  and  the 
kid  in  the  back  row  had  the  next  room  and  he  could  hear 
them  moving  about.  Then  there  was  silence,  and  he 
snugly  .covered  himself  with  blankets,  his  overcoat  and  a 
steamer  rug,  which  he  carried  for  use  in  the  chilly  hotels 
where  the  water  froze  in  the  pitcher  and  the  snow  sifted 
in  through  the  windows.  He  was  almost  asleep  when 
he  heard  a  noise  in  the  next  room.  One  of  those  fool 
girls  was  crying,  and  the  other  was  trying  to  soothe  her. 
He  couldn't  sleep  with  that  convulsive  sobbing  going  on, 
and  he  wished  fervently  that  she'd  cut  it  out. 

"I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Mabel,"  said  the 
blonde's  voice,  "and  I  wouldn't  make  a  fool  o'  myself 
over  no  man.  Brace  up  an'  quit !" 

There  were  more  sobs  and  the  blonde's  room-mate 
moaned.  "Oh,  I  wish  I  were  dead !  And  if  you  tell  him 
I  will  be  dead,  see  if  I  ain't.  You  wouldn't  have  known 
if  you  hadn't  spied  on  me,  and  now  you're  going  to  tell !" 

"I  ain't,  no  such  a  thing!"  declared  the  blonde  vigor- 
ously. 

He  heard  the  bed  shake ;  then  the  sound  of  a  match 
striking.  The  blonde  was  going  to  throw  a  little  light  on 
the  subject. 

281 


ROMANCE  OF  ACROBAT  AND  NEEDLE. 

"Say,  listen,  Mabel,"  she  exclaimed,  unaware  of  the 
thinness  of  the  partition  which  separated  them  from  the 
acrobat.  "I  ain't  no  tattle  tale,  an'  I  wouldn't  a'  got  hep 
if  I  hadn't  got  a  flash  a  yuh  connin'  the  chambermaid  tuh 
open  the  dor — see  ?  And  I  wouldn't  have  hollered  at  yuh, 
only  he  was  comin'  down  the  hall.  Honest  tuh  Gawd, 
he  was.  Gee!  what's  the  use  cryin',  an'  yuh  ain't  hardly 
spoke  tuh  the  guy.  I  don't  see  what  yuh  see  in  him,  any- 
way. He  ain't  much,  goodness  knows." 


There  was  no  answer.  The  acrobat  suddenly  sat  up  in 
bed  and  grinned  foolishly  in  the  dark.  He  had  spotted 
the  sock-mender  at  last,  but  the  blonde  needn't  air  her 
views  of  him  so  freely.  He  didn't  see  anything  in  her, 
either.  Pretty  tough  nut,  that  one,  too.  Read  the  fight 
news  and  was  always  gassing  about  Britt,  Nelson  and 
O'Brien  and  Cans.  Sounded  a  whole  lot  better  for 
women  to  talk  on  more  suitable  topics.  But,  by  G.eorge ! 
The  kid  in  the  back  row;  that  was  a  knockout.  And 
he'd  never  spoken  to  her,  except  once  when  Props  was 
rolling  out  his  mat,  and  he  had  gruffly  bade  her  get  out  of 
the  way. 

He  wished  she'd  say  something  else,  but  all  was  still, 
and  finally,  shivering,  he  got  under  the  quilts  again  and 
burrowed  warmly.  The  girls  were  gone  when  the  porter 
called  him  for  breakfast  in  the  freezing  dawn,  and  when 
he  hurried  to  the  table  both  were  leaving.  He  gazed 
at  the  little  one  interestedly,  but  she  calmly  said,  "Good 
morning,"  and  passed  out.  She  was  dressed  in  a  thin- 
looking  black  skirt,  with  a  short  little  Eton  jacket,  under 
which  showed  a  white  shirtwaist.  Low  shoes,  a  picture 
hat  and  a  ratty  looking  ermine  neckscarf  about  an  inch 
wide  completed  her  attire.  He  was  cold  in  his  big  warm 
coat  and  heavy  suit  underneath.  No  wonder,  when  he 
saw  her  at  the  depot,  her  face  looked  pale  and  wan.  The 
poor  child  would  have  pneumonia  next. 

He  sought  out  the  manager  on  the  train  and  told  him 
282 


ROMANCE   OF   ACROBAT   AND   NEEDLE. 

that  somebody  ought  to  make  that  girl  wear  sensible 
clothing  in  Dakota  in  December. 

"My  dear  Jim,"  observed  the  latter,  wearily,  "it's  no 
use  trying  to  make  a  woman  have  sense.  This  kid,  I  un- 
derstand, sends  five  of  her  eighteen  a  week  home.  She 
lives  on  the  rest,  and  when  she  left  New  York  her  pres- 
ent outfit  was  the  goods.  Am  I  going  to  buy  her  a  seal- 
skin? No,  I  ain't,  and  neither  are  you,  I  expect.  She 
knows  her  game ;  leave  her  alone." 

"You  make  me  sick,  Smith !"  said  the  acrobat,  fiercely ; 
"sick:  that's  what!"  He  flung  himself  into  the  opposite 
seat  of  the  smoker.  The  manager  chuckled. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake !  you  ain't  beginnin'  to  want  to 
regulate  the  woes  of  chorus  girls,  and  you  in  the  show 
business  fifteen  years?"  he  inquired  amusedly. 

"You  be  damned !"  retorted  the  acrobat,  peevishly,  and 
he  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  could  hear  the  man- 
ager snickering,  and  it  aggravated  him. 


As  soon  as  he  was  inside  his  room  at  the  hotel  in  Fargo 
he  got  out  the  pair  of  black  socks  with  the  hole,  and  also 
a  bottle  of  indelible  ink.  An  hour  before  matinee  time 
he  poured  the  ink  on  the  sock  with  the  hole  and  laid  it 
on  top  of  the  other.  He  meant  to  settle  this  affair  abso- 
lutely and  then  buy  that  kid  something  to  wear.  Those 
poor  little  cold  fingers  sewing  for  him  had  something 
coming.  He  was  as  nervous  as  on  the  first  night  of  a 
new  trick  and  fussed  around  down  in  the  bar,  taking  a 
drink  and  smoking  bad  Western  cigarettes  until  time  to 
dress  for  his  act. 

He  had  a  part  in  the  afterpiece,  in  which  the  chorus 
girls  clustered  around  him,  while  he  did  some  comedy, 
and  this  was  where  he  would  nail  her.  He  felt  certain 
she'd  go  to  his  room  before  the  matinee,  having  seen 
him  safely  out.  He  hoped  so,  otherwise  the  ink  would 
dry. 

She  came  capering  out  with  the  rest,  looking  as  pretty 
as  a  peach,  even  with  all  the  rouge  and  black  lines  around 

283 


ROMANCE  OF  ACROBAT  AND  NEEDLE. 

her  eyes.  Why,  she  was  the  best  looker  in  the  troupe, 
if  she  had  good  clothes,  and  here  he'd  never  noticed  it 
before. 

Her  arms  were  bare,  and  his  eyes  sought  her  hands. 
Oh !  The  bait  had  worked,  for  even  with  all  the  powder 
she  had  plastered  on  the  right  that  ink  stain  showed 
through.  He  looked  her  square  in  the  face  as  she  took 
her  place  in  the  rear  of  the  statuesque  blonde,  her  room- 
mate, and  gave  her  a  friendly  smile.  A  sudden  joy 
seemed  to  illuminate  her  painted  face,  then  she  shut  her 
lips  and  looked  toward  the  audience.  One  of  the  girls 
laughed  and  winked  at  the  little  one,  but  she  paid  no  at- 
tention to  either  the  girl  or  the  acrobat,  who  looked  as 
handsome  in  his  light  suit  as  the  millionaire's  son  with 
"nothing  but" • 

The  strangest  feeling  had  come  over  him.  He  felt  a 
pleasant  warmth  spreading  through  his  being,  and  the 
sock-mender  was  the  cause  of  it.  She  had  him  going, 
and  all  in  a  few  hours.  "I'll  let  the  bets  go  as  they  lay," 
he  remarked  softly  to  himself,  in  his  dressing  room. 
"Why,  when  I  have  some  of  my  diamonds  set  for  her 
and  dress  her  up  she'll  be  a  three  time  winner.  And 
she'll  cut  out  the  tights,  too.  They  run  for  Sweeney. 
I'll  bet  maw  would  like  her,  the  little  rascal." 

She  wouldn't  even  look  up  at  supper,  but  in  his  room 
all  was  in  order,  with  even  the  inky  sock  darned.  He 
sighed  happily  and  looked  out  at  the  swirling  snow,  the 
beginning  of  a  Dakota  blizzard. 

It  was  great  to  be  alive. 


The  train  was  late,  for  the  roads  were  blocked,  and 
the  burlesquers  warmed  their  hands  at  the  big  stove, 
peeped  out  once  in  a  while  into  the  snowy  night  or  tried 
to  sleep  in  the  stuffy  air.  Suddenly  the  cold  seemed  to 
permeate  the  whole  place  as  old  King  Winter  sent  his 
shrieking  forces  of  icy  wind  against  the  windows. 

The  acrobat  felt  fine, "but  he  couldn't  find  his  "little 
missus,"  as  he  called  her  gayly  now.  Then  she  came  in 

284 


ROMANCE  OF  ACROBAT  AND  NEEDLE. 

alone,  her  lips  blue  and  her  teeth  chattering,  hard  as  she 
tried  to  control  herself.  He  couldn't  stand  any  more, 
and  just  at  that  minute  all  the  world  might  have  stood 
by  watching  for  all  the  difference  it  made  to  him.  He 
only  knew  that  he  was  a  man  able  to  shield  this  little 
creature,  who  thought  enough  of  him  to  do  things  for 
him  secretly,  expecting  no  praise  and  getting  none. 

''Hey,  kid !"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  where  I  throw 
the  biggest  drink  of  booze  in  old  Dakota  into  you,  you 
poor  little  chick !  Get  into  this !"  The  big  ulster  was 
around  her,  and  so  was  a  big  arm,  in  spite  of  her  feeble 
protests  and  the  astonished  looks  of  the  whispering  girls 
of  the  company. 

"This  is  where  you  and  I  start  in  and  play  one  string, 
kid,"  he  said  tenderly  into  the  depths  of  the  big  ulster, 
and  the  way  the  sock-mender  cuddled  against  him  made 
him  certain  he  had  done  just  the  right  thing  for  two 
lonesome  persons. 


The    Further   Adventures    of 
Clarence. 

CLARENCE  FINK,  the  red-headed  messenger  boy,  lis- 
tened with  an  air  of  respectful  attention  as  the  man 
who  owns  poolrooms  gave  him  some  instructions  and 
bade  him  follow  them  to  the  letter. 

"S'posin*  the  party  ain't  in?"  inquired  Clarence. 

"She'll  be  there,"  said  the  poolroom  man,  positively; 
"no  fear.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  you 
a  half  for  yourself  now  and  another  if  a  guy  with  a 
black  mustache  don't  catch  you  handing  her  the  note. 
Are  you  wise?" 

"I'm  next/'  said  Clarence,  and  he  winked  coonily 
at  his  employer.  When  he  had  gone  up  in  the  eleva- 
tor at  the  big  apartment  house  and  been  admitted 
by  the  lady  to  whom  the  note  was  addressed,  Clarence 
stood  in  the  hall  surveying  the  Gibson  girl  pictures 
as  he  waited  politely  for  her  to  read  the  missive. 
"Her  old  man's  out,  an'  she's  makin'  a  date  wit'  anoder 
guy,"  reflected  Clarence,  and  just  then  a  big  man  with 
a  black  mustache  walked  out  of  the  front  room. 

"I'm  going  now,"  he  remarked,  "Remember  what  I 
told  you,  and  don't  you  dare  to  leave  this  house  for 
three  days.  I'll  be  back  in  the  morning." 

"Yes,  of  course  I'll  do  as,  you  say,"  said  the  lady  in 
a  frightened  voice.  "Good-by!"  My,  but  he  was  a 
mean  man,  Clarence  decided.  Going  to  stay  out  all 
night  and  wouldn't  let  his  poor  wife  out  of  doors,  and 
it  served  him  right  that  the  poolroom  man  had  cut 
in-  and  was  going  to  take  her  out  to  supper.  Poor 
woman,  it  was  a  shame!  She'd  have  been  good  looking 

286 


THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CLARENCE. 

if  she  hadn't  been  so  pale  and  wan  looking.  But  she 
was  speaking,  half  to  herself. 

"I  want  to  go  like  everything,"  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"but  I  ought  to  stay  here.  I  wonder  now  what  you 
would  do?" 

"Aw,  gwan  along!"  exclaimed  Clarence.  "Hully 
chee,  y'r  a  mark  tuh  stick  round  here  an'  gtt  the  worst 
of  it!"  He  almost  regretted  his  hasty  advice  for  an 
instant  after  he  had  given  it,  as  the  lady  looked  so 
queerly  at  him.  Then  she  laughed  again. 

"Well,  that  settles  it,  I'm  going!"  she  declared  gaily J 
"and  you  tell  him  I'll  meet  him  at  10  o'clock  and  we'll 
have  a  lovely  time.  Here's  a  quarter  for  you." 

As  he  went  out  Clarence  heard  her  singing  cheer- 
fully. He  felt  glad  that  her  sad  life  was  going  to  be 
brightened  a  bit.  The  poolroom  man  wasn't  much  for 
looks,  but  he  had  money  and  would  no  doubt  buy 
her  some  good  grub  and  some  wine.  Clarence  felt  an 
unusual  interest  in  the  case,  because  he  had  carried 
many  messages  around  town  for  the  poo'room  man, 
but  never  one  to  a  female  before.  "She'll  be  on  deck, 
boss,"  he  reported. 

"Gosh,  I'm  glad  of  it!"  was  the  answer.  "Wasn't 
that  chap  there?  I  heard  him  say  he'd  be  there  after 
a  dinner,  and  Lord  knows  I  don't  want  him  to  know 
this.  He'd  just  about  kill  me."  Clarence  narrated  the 
tale  of  the  black  mustached  one's  departure  and  he 
wouldn't  be  there  again  until  morning. 

"Hope  not,"  said  the  poolroom  man.  "She's  sick 
enough  of  seeing  him,  I  guess.  This  won't  hurt  her 
a  bit.  I'd  just  as  soon  tell  him  at  that  except  for  the 
kick  he'd  raise.  Here's  your  dough,  kid ;  you're  all 
right." 

A  man  who  could  pay  a  dollar  tip  was  all  right, 
and  Clarence  was  strong  for  his  interests.  "She's 
tickled,"  he  volunteered ;  "said  she  was.  She  gimme 
a  quarter." 

"Oh,  she's  the  goods,  kid,"  said  the  poolroom  man, 
happily;  "if  she  could  just  cut  that  fellow  out  she'd 

287 


THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CLARENCE. 

be  all  right.  He  does  more  harm  than  good.  All  of 
'em  do."  Clarence,  supposing  he  referred  to  husbands 
in  general,  agreed,  and  then  departed  for  the  mess- 
enger office. 


It  was  midnight,  and  Clarence,  who  should  have 
been  at  home  and  asleep,  being  off  duty,  had  been 
shooting  craps  over  in  a  livery  stable  with  several 
other  messengers,  and  now  he  had  resolved  to  seek 
his  couch  and  rest.  Passing  a  big  Broadway  restau- 
rant, he  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  merry  parties  within. 
The  windows  were  up  and  through  the  thin  lace  cur- 
tains he  saw  the  poolroom  man  and  the  lady. 

She  faced  the  window,  looking  very  prettv  in  a  pale 
blue  gown,  while  the  poolroom  man  poured  bubbling 
champagne  into  her  glass.  Clarence  edged  closer. 
"Who's  little  baby  are  you?"  said  the  poolroom  man, 
tenderly,  and  the  lady  reached  across  the  table  to  pat 
his  hand.  It  was  very  touching  and  Clarence  really 
wished  that  a  good  spender  like  this  guy  wasn't  up 
against  it  so  badly,  with  his  lady  love  married  to  a  brute. 

Horror  of  horrors!  As  Clarence  looked,  the  man 
with  the  black  mustache  appeared,  looking  for  a  table. 
The  poolroom  man  did  not  see  him,  neither  did  the 
lady.  There  might  be  murder  in  a  minute. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  leave  this  house,"  was  what  he 
had  said.  But  Clarence  had  been  on  Broadway  a 
good  while  and  he  hesitated  but  a  scant  moment. 
Pushing  aside  the  hatboy,  who  tried  to  stop  him,  he 
rushed  in  and  clutched  the  black  mustached  man's 
arm. 

"Say,  your  house  is  struck  by  lightnin'!"  he  ex- 
claimed suddenly.  "They  want  youse  to  come  right 
on  out!  It's  burnin!" 

"Lightnin'!"  cried  out  the  victim,  "Good  God!  But 
there's  been  no  storm,  boy;  what  on  earth  do  you 
mean?  Who  sent  you?" 

"They  was  one  there,"  said  Clarence  firmly,  as  he 
288 


THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  CLARENCE. 

kept  pace  while  the  excited  man  hurried  to  the  door, 
but  just  as  he  reached  it  so  did  the  poolroom  man  and 
his  companion. 

"Hello,  Doc,  by  Jove,  you've  caught  us !"  he  began 
with  a  grin.  "Nell  wanted  to  hide,  but  I  said  no. 
It's  doing  her  good,  honest,  Doc !" 

Clarence  looked  on,  aghast  at  his  nerve.  Doc,  urg- 
ing the  hatboy  to  find  his  Panama,  seemed  but  little 
disturbed  by  the  sight  of  the  poolroom  man,  but  he 
wildly  stated  that  his  house  was  on  fire.  Clarence 
pulled  at  the  poolroom  man's  coat. 

"Hully  chee,  nawtin'  doin',  his  house  ain't  hoit,"  he 
said,  sadly.  "I  was  tryin'  tuh  make  him  sidestep 
youse  an'  his  wife,  an'  I  butts  in  wit'  this  song;  but 
youse  went  and  killed  it  y'rself.  I  done  my  best." 

And  when  the  family  doctor  could  stop  laughing  at 
his  fair  patient,  who  had  disobeyed  orders,  to  sup  with 
her  husband,  he  said  Clarence  was  a  slick  kid  and 
handed  him  a  quarter  for  luck.  But  Clarence  felt 
pretty  cheap. 


Mrs.  Jimmy  Goes  Camping. 

THE  Jimmy  de  Forrests  were  going  to  rough  it  in  the 
wilderness,  far  from  the  eye  of  civilized  man.  That  was 
how  Mrs.  Jimmy,  big  eyed  and  earnest,  explained  it  to  her 
father-in-law,  the  colonel.  The  latter  had  made  his  pile 
out  in  the  hills  of  Nevada,  in  the  days  when  Pioche  was 
the  big  camp,  and  prospectors  scornfully  passed  over  the 
desert  where  Tonopah  now  turns  out  its  annual  millions 
in  gold.  The  colonel  still  dabbled  a  bit  in  mining,  and 
once  in  a  while  he  took  a  trip  West,  just  to  get  away  from 
pavements  and  evening  clothes,  and  eat  bacon  and  "sour 
dough"  bread  along  the  trail  with  some  old  cronies. 

Mrs.  Jimmy  said  they'd  go  to  the  Adirondacks,  and 
when  the  colonel  laughed  unkindly,  and  asked  if  that  was 
her  wilderness,  she  said,  with  spirit,  that  lots  of  the  very 
best  people  went,  and  it  was  as  rough  as  anything. 

"And  you  must  come,"  she  announced.  "You're  to 
show  us  how  to  do,  and  we'll  live  just  like  they  do  on  the 
trail,  and  all  that.  Won't  it  be  sweet  ?" 

"Where  you  goin'  to  get  a  cook,  my  dear?"  inquired 
the  colonel,  who  was  practical. 

"We'll  cook  ourselves,  that's  the  fun  of  it,  don't  you 
see?"  she  replied,  and  when  the  colonel  urged  her  to  at 
least  take  along  his  Japanese  valet,  who  could  do  all  sorts 
of  things  with  a  few  pots  and  pans  and  the  most  ordinary 
articles  of  food,  she  said  Yashami  couldn't  go  a  step. 

So  the  colonel  sighed,  and  gave  in,  and  from  that  night 
the  ten-room  apartment  on  Riverside  Drive  lost  its  peace- 
ful air.  Books  on  camp  equipment,  blankets,  new-fangled 
cooking  sets  made  of  aluminum,  etc.,  filled  every  chair 
not  in  active  service,  while  the  boxes  arriving,  filled  with 
rough  clothing  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jimmy,  littered  the  whole 

290 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

place.  The  colonel  fled  to  the  theatres,  his  clubs  and  the 
restaurants,  returning  only  when  all  was  still  except  for 
the  steady  buzz  of  talk  front  Mrs.  Jimmy's  boudoir,  where 
she  and  her  husband  argued  over  the  advantages  of  differ- 
ent styles  of  air  mattresses. 

Several  times  the  colonel  offered  a  little  advice  as  to 
what  they  should  take,  but  Mrs.  Jimmy  silenced  him. 
She  showed  him  the  lists  which  the  up-to-date  explorers 
now  took  to  Labrador  and  Mackenzie's  Land,  and  also 
what  a  friend  of  Jimmy's  said  he  would  take  the  next 
time  he  invaded  the  fever  district  in  the  dank,  hot  jungles 
of  Yucatan. 

"But  why  100  dozen  cans  of  tomatoes,  and  3  quarts  of 
citric  acid,  my  pet?"  asked  the  puzzled  colonel. 

"They  prevent  scurvy,"  said  Mrs.  Jimmy  firmly,  "and 
may  save  our  lives."  The  colonel  left  the  room  suddenly. 
They  heard  him  cackling  merrily  to  himself  from  the 
library,  and  Mrs.  Jimmy  was  hurt.  "I  guess  he'll  be  glad 
some  time,  if  those  tomatoes  should  save  a  whole  camp," 
she  said  in  injured  tones.  "Didn't  he  say  himself  that  if 
people  prepared  properly  they  wouldn't  suffer  hardship 
afterward  ?" 

"Certainly,  dear,"  returned  her  husband.  "Your  lists 
are  perfect,  because  I  showed  them  to  Lord  Gardner, 
who's  been  up  the  Nile  in  a  what  d'ye  call  it — and  he 
said  they  were  bully,  and  you  must  be  awf'ly  clever." 

"I'm  no  fool,"  said  Mrs.  Jimmy  with  a  pleased  air. 
"I  wonder  if  you  camp  in  a  dahabeah,  isn't  that  what 
they  are  ?  I  must  ask  him  to  dinner,  or  something." 


After  a  busy  month  of  preparation,  Mrs.  Jimmy  at  last 
announced  that  all  was  ready,  and  that  in  two  days  they 
would  ''break  camp,"  for  she  only  conversed  in  proper 
wilderness  language  now,  and  scorned  ordinary  phrases. 
The  colonel  had  not  permitted  her  to  buy  him  a  single 
article  for  use  during  their  sojourn  in  the  woods.  Nor 
had  he,  as  far  as  Mrs.  Jimmy  could  learn  from  his  un- 
communicative valet,  purchased  so  much  as  a  grain  of 

291 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

quinine  to  ward  off  possible  attacks  of  chills.  She  had 
three  pounds  of  it,  however,  so  at  least  he  should  not 
suffer  on  that  account. 

"Now,  my  dear,  I'm  an  old  man,  and  have  my  own 
ways,"  said  the  colonel,  politely,  when  she  begged  him  to 
at  least  say  what  he'd  Hike  to  eat  in  camp.  "I'll  eat  what 
you've  got,  and  the  plainer  the  better.  You  and  Jim  will 
throw  away  about  half  of  that  trash  you've  got  packed 
up,  too,"  he  added,  disgustedly. 

"Trash !"  Mrs.  Jimmy  gazed  at  him  pityingly.  How 
little  did  he  know  of  the  practical  devices  for  comfort,  sug- 
gested by  a  hundred  clerks  who  had  never  been  further 
from  home  than  Jersey  City,  which  those  boxes  and  bags 
contained !  "But  we  leave  to-morrow,  and  you  haven't 
even  had  a  trunk  packed,"  she  persisted. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  the  colonel,  suddenly.  "If 
you  insist,  my  dear,  I'll  get  ready  now,  and  then,  for  God's 
sake,  let  me  smoke !" 

He  rose  moodily,  and  disappeared.  She  heard  him 
opening  drawers  and  a  trunk  in  his  room,  and  much  re- 
lieved, rushed  off  to  look  for  the  twentieth  time  at  the 
cookstove,  which  folded  up  when  one  wanted  to  carry  it. 
She  hadn't  forgotten  a  thing.  She  was  so  tired  from  the 
work  of  gadding  all  over  town  after  the  stuff  that  she 
could  hardly  keep  on,  but  it  was  to  be  a  season  of  delicious 
rest,  just  to  lazy  around  under  the  trees  and  watch  the 
little  cloudlets  floating  in  the  sky,  and  all  that. 

The  colonel's  door  opened,  and  he  came  down  the  hall 
to  the  window  where  she  stood  looking  out  on  the  Hud- 
son. 

"I'm  ready,"  Ite  remarked.  "  Let's  go  for  a  drive.  Come 
on ;  it'll  do  you  good." 

But  Mrs.  Jimmy  wanted  to  see  what  he  was  going  to 
take.  She  said  she  just  knew  he  hadn't  put  in  his  lovely 
woolly  slippers  she  made  for  him  Christmas,  or  his  pin- 
cushion. A  neat  roll  of  canvas,  which  turned  out  to  be  a 
small  "A"  tent,  lay  by  the  colonel's  bed.  On  top  of  it 
were  two  well-filled  canvas  "navy"  bags,  and  a  suit  case. 

"My  blankets,"  said  the  colonel,  pointing  to  one  bag. 
292 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

"Sweaters,  old  trousers  and  a  light  hunting  suit.  Small 
stuff  in  the  other.  One  good  suit  and  two  shirts  in  the 
bag,  in  case  we  go  somewhere.  Frying  pans  and  coffee 
pot  are  inside  the  tent  roll." 

"Frying  pans !"  gasped  Mrs.  Jimmy.  "Oh,  father !  It's 
cruel  of  you !  Haven't  I  got  three  sets  of  lovely  alumi- 
num dishes,  and  everything,  and  a  compartment  'family' 
tent,  for  all  of  us?" 

"Heavens,  my  love!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  impa- 
tiently. "I  wouldn't  sleep  in  a  damn  fool  thing  like  that. 
I've  told  you  I'd  go.  Well,  I'm  going,  but  I  camp  by 
myself.  I'll  come  and  see  you,  but  I  ain't  going  to  be  in 
any  such  cluttered  up  place  as  you'll  have  with  six  train 
loads  of  new-fangled  truck." 

"You're  just  as  mean  as  you  can  be !"  Mrs.  Jimmy  was 
crying.  "After  all  my  wo-ork,  and  I'm  nearly  dead — 
maybe  I  will  die,  and  you'll  be  sorry — and  you  go  and  act 
like  a  hermit." 

"Rot!"  cried  the  colonel,  unkindly.  "Go  to  bed  and 
get  a  rest,  child.  You're  played  out." 

When  his  son  came  home  the  colonel  had  a  little  chat 
with  him.  "You  make  her  get  a  cook,"  he  advised.  "She's 
crazy.  All  women  are.  What's  she  know  about  cooking 
on  a  campfire?  Wait'll  she  runs  around  trying  to  get 
away  from  the  smoke,  and  the  bread  burns  up.  By  the 
way,  how  about  bread  ?" 

"Bake  it  in  improved  folding  ovens,"  answered  the 
younger  man.  "Fellow  down  in  the  shop  showed  us  how. 
It's  a  cinch.  I'm  going  to  help,  you  know." 

"Well,  if  you  get  in  bad,  come  over  to  my  camp  and 
I'll  guarantee  you  a  meal,  anyway,"  chuckled  the  colonel. 

"I  can  see  their  finish,"  he  said  to  Yashami,  the  valet, 
as  the  latter  rubbed  hair  tonic  into  his  master's  bald  spot 
that  night.  "And  you  do  as  I  tell  you.  There's  a  town 
about  fifteen  miles  from  this  place,  and  I  want  you  to  get 
a  room  there.  She'll  have  plenty  in  two  days,  so  you  be 
ready.  You'll  be  a  cook  'stead  of  a  valet,  and  it  won't 
hurt  you  a  bit.  That  is,  if  you  want  me  to  take  you  when 
I  go  to  Japan  in  August,"  and  the  colonel  winked  slyly 

293 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

at  his  servitor.  The  latter  agreed  to  accept  the  humbler 
office  of  cook,  to  please  the  colonel,  whereat  the  old  gen- 
tleman grinned  cheerfully. 

*        *        * 

The  Jimmy  de  Forrests  had  900  pounds  of  excess  bag- 
gage, for  Mrs.  Jimmy  said  it  must  go  when  they  did,  and 
not  by  freight.  Fortunately,  money  was  no  object  to  these 
young  persons,  or  the  expedition  might  have  ended  before 
it  began.  In  price,  a  trip  to  Europe  was  a  trifle  compared 
to  the  tips  it  was  costing  them  to  see  their  precious  camp 
outfit  safely  stowed  away  in  the  baggage  car. 

The  colonel,  his  meagre  luggage  quickly  checked,  was 
snugly  ensconced  in  the  smoker,  and  he  only  emerged 
when  the  train  reached  Westport,  on  Lake  Champlain. 
They  were  to  drive  fifteen  miles  to  a  spot  which  a  friend 
of  Jimmy's  had  found  while  hunting  during  the  previous 
Autumn. 

The  outfit  followed  in  several  wagons,  while  the 
colonel,  when  he  stepped  off  the  station  platform,  mounted 
a  fine  black  horse,  which,  held  by  a  boy,  was  saddled,  and 
evidently  in  waiting  for  him.  "I'm  a  Western  man,  my 
pet,"  he  said,  as  he  rode  up  to  where  Mrs.  Jimmy,  in  an 
anguished  voice,  was  calling  to  a  teamster  not  to  drop  the 
boxes  of  canned  goods  on  the  folding  lanterns  and  the 
medicine  chest.  "And  I  always  ride.  So  I  had  this  very 
good  animal  shipped  up  here,  and  the  man  says  there's 
plenty  of  feed  around  our  camp.  May  I  ask  what's  in 
that  crate  on  the  top  ?" 

"Firewood,  of  course/'  replied  Mrs.  Jimmy.  "In  the 
dearest  little  bundles,  and  only  8  cents  each.  Didn't  you 
say  how  beastly  it  was  to  make  camp  on  the  trail  in  the 
rain,  and  not  find  a  stick  of  dry  kindling  ?" 

"Very  likely,  I  presume  I  did,"  said  the  colonel,  hastily, 
turning  away  his  face.  He  did  that  all  the  time  now,  Mrs. 
Jimmy  thought  resentfully,  and  it  was  most  annoying1  to 
have  him  giggling  in  that  absurd  fashion.  She  wished 
she'd  thought  of  horses,  after  the  two-seated  affair,  which 
a  farmer's  boy  drove,  began  jolting  unpleasantly,  especially 
as  the  colonel  cantered  along  so  easily. 

294 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

At  the  camp,  one  good-hearted  teamster  offered  to  stay 
and  cook  supper,  but  Mrs.  Jimmy  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  so 
the  wagons,  emptied,  rattled  back  to  the  village. 

The  colonel  had  his  little  tent,  fastened,  by  a  rope  run 
under  the  top,  to  two  trees,  up  in  no  time.  Four  pegs, 
one  at  each  corner,  were  all  he  used,  and  to  see  him 
rustling  a  supply  of  dead  limbs,  and  a  bucket  of  water,  was 
great.  He  leveled  off  the  ground  inside  his  tent,  spread 
his  tarpaulin  down,  laid  his  blankets  inside,  rolled  up  an 
empty  canvas  bag  and  the  shooting  suit  for  a  pillow,  and 
there  was  a  bed  fit  for  any  man. 

He  was  hungry,  so,  from  a  good  sized  box  one  wagon 
had  carried  out  came  a  side  of  bacon,  a  bag  of  flour,  baking 
powder,  salt,  a  can  of  peaches,  and  one  of  milk.  Then  a 
can  of  butter,  and  various  small  things. 

The  colonel  mixed  his  baking  powder  bread  in  the  top 
of  his  flour  bag,  with  a  practised  hand,  shortened  it  with 
bacon  grease,  and  set  it  in  a  frying  pan  to  bake  in  the  heat 
of  his  fire.  He  didn't  even  look  toward  the  camp,  some 
100  yards  away,  but  he  couldn't  help  hearing  the  sounds 
of  distress. 

When  one  "bannock"  was  done,  the  colonel  had  another 
ready  to  bake.  Could  he  intend  to  eat  two  of  those  enor- 
mous buns  ?  And  he  made  a  big  pot  of  coffee,  snickering 
to  himself  as  he  set  it  to  keep  warm  beside  the  first  loaf  of 
bread.  When  all  was  done,  he  covered  his  grub  neatly 
with  a  piece  of  canvas,  and  started  for  the  next  camp.  The 
family  compartment  tent  had  just  fallen  for  the  third  time, 
burying  the  Jimmy  de  Forrests.  The  colonel  helped  them 
out  from  under  it.  His  son,  unashamed,  was  cursing  bit- 
terly, while  Mrs.  Jimmy  sternly  held  back  her  tears. 

"It's  no  worse  than  that  stove  you  bought,  that  won't 
stand  up !"  she  said,  spitefully.  "The  man  said  two  could 
put  this  up.  NO  ONE  can  put  up  your  stove." 

"Come  on  over  and  eat  with  me,  kids,"  interrupted  the 
colonel,  "and  I'll  help  you  set  camp  afterward.  Grub's  all 
ready." 

Protesting  that  she  had  intended  to  get  dinner  for  every 
one,  Mrs.  Jimmy  gladly  accepted. 

295 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

"Really,"  observed  young  Mr.  de  Forrest,  his  mouth  full 
of  bacon  and  bannock,  "I  never  ate  anything  so  good! 
Father,  how  on  earth  did  you  do  all  this  so  quickly  ?"  The 
colonel,  for  answer,  dug  out  a  luscious  hunk  of  canned 
corned  beef,  put  some  mustard  on  it  with  a  stick,  and  gal- 
lantly offered  it  to  Mrs.  Jimmy. 

"Easy,  when  you  know  how,"  said  he.  "I  could  have 
brought  fresh  meat,  but  feel  like  this.  Wonder  how  the 
game  is  round  here?" 

Mrs.  Jimmy,  in  her  imported  French  hunting  costume, 
which,  without  corsets,  was  too  tight,  rose  with  an  effort 
from  the  ground,  on  which  she  had  been  seated. 

"Say,  ain't  you  got  a  sweater?"  asked  the  colonel, 
anxiously.  "You'll  bust  in  that  thing!  Why,  you  don't 
wear  corsets  roughing  it !"  And  then  Mrs.  Jimmy  leaned 
against  a  tree,  mashed  her  nose  against  it,  and  wailed  dis- 
mally. "I  wish  I  were  home!"  she  sobbed.  "It's  just 
work,  work,  work!  I  can't  find  anything,  and  they 
broke  the  lantern,  and  here  it's  nearly  dark !" 

"Let  her  sleep  in  my  bed  to-night,  Jim,"  whispered  the 
colonel.  "I'll  help  you  frame  up  your  camp."  But  Mrs. 
Jimmy  stopped  weeping,  and  swore  she'd  help,  too,  corsets 
or  not.  But  when  the  mosquitoes  began  their  buzzing,  it 
was  in  vain  that  the  colonel  pointed  out  the  pretty  sunset, 
and  that  here  would  be  a  moon. 

The  big  tent  was  a  horrible  failure.  Every  time  they 
stationed  Mrs.  Jimmy  under  it,  with  orders  to  "Hold  that 
pole  steady,"  while  they  fixed  the  two  longest  ones,  just 
at  the  critical  moment  a  mosquito  would  sting  her  tear- 
stained  face,  her  pole  would  wabble,  and  down  it  came. 

"If  you'll  only  go  away,  my  dear,"  expostulated  the 
colonel,  "we  can  do  it.  You're  only  hindering  us !" 

Then  Jimmy  told  his  parent  not  to  be  a  brute  to  the  poor 
little  thing,  and  Mrs.  Jimmy  said  all  right,  she'd  go  home 
if  she  wasn't  any  use,  and  start  right  now,  too.  After  they 
had  soothed  her,  the  work  went  on,  and  the  colonel,  in  the 
deepening  gloom,  dropped  his  glasses  and  stepped  on  them. 

Oh,  how  he  swore !  Mrs.  Jimmy  stopped  her  ears  and 
296 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

prayed  that  an  outraged  Providence  would  not  punish  him 
for  such  awful  conduct. 

But  at  last  the  tent  was  up,  and  Mrs.  Jimmy,  exhausted, 
lay  under  it.  She  didn't  even  care  how  red  her  nose  was, 
or  that  her  hair  was  mussed.  When  this  lady,  whose  com- 
plexion and  costumes  made  the  watchers  in  Hyde  Park, 
during  a  church  parade  in  the  season,  stare,  could  feel  such 
indifference,  life  had  lost  its  charms  indeed. 

"Come  on,  now,  and  I  only  hope  she  don't  come  out," 
said  the  colonel,  dragging  his  son  toward  the  mounds  of 
boxes  and  crates  which  were  scattered  from  the  lake  to  the 
camp. 

"Now,  you  always  want  to  have  your  grub  at  hand, 
ready  for  a  quick  breakfast/'  he  began.  "Just  think,  if  you 
had  to  rat  around  in  this  mess !  Take  you  a  day.  What 
you  want  for  breakfast?  Bring  my  lantern  here.  Cuss  it, 
light  the  candle,  you  blamed  ninny !  It's  inside.  Say,  ain't 
you  ever  seen  a  lantern  ?" 

"I  thought  you  turned  'em  on,  or  something,"  answered 
his  son,  fumbling  at  the  colonel's  square  miner's  lantern. 
"Gosh,  it's  going  to  be  some  work,  this  affair." 

"Bah !"  snorted  the  colonel.  "Heave  most  of  this  plun- 
der in  the  lake,  and  it  won't  be.  Are  these  your  dishes? 
Where's  the  knives  and  forks?"  A  groan  came  from  in- 
side the  tent,  then  Mrs.  Jimmy  staggered  out.  "They're 
on  our  bed,  back  in  New  York,"  she  said,  hopelessly.  "I 
meant  to  put  'em  in  the  shirt  box !" 

"Well,  well ;  only  need  a  knife  and  fork  apiece.  Don't 
have  a  fit.  I've  got  some,"  said  the  colonel,  briskly.  "Go 
to  sleep  in  that  nice  little  tent  of  mine.  You'll  feel  like  a 
fighting  cock  to-morrow.  Put  on  a  sweater,  and  the  skirt 
of  that  thing  you've  got  on,  and  burn  up  that  tight  coat. 
You  want  to  feel  free ;  see  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will.  I  wish  I  were  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Jimmy 
dully,  as  she  tripped  over  a  log  and  fell  headlong.  "Leave 
me  alone !"  she  cried  wildly,  when  her  husband  essayed  to 
pick  her  up.  Then  she  fled  to  the  little  tent.  The  colonel 
said  nothing.  He  knew  when  to  remain  silent. 

297 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  colonel  had  been  fish- 
ing from  a  rock,  and  he  had  four  fine  fish  on  a  forked 
branch,  stripped  of  its  bark,  when  he  came  over  to  where 
the  Jimmy  de  Forrests  were  running  aimlessly  about. 
Airs.  Jimmy  had  a  pile  of  heavy  corduroy  clothing,  Klon- 
dike sleeping  bags,  bags  of  beans,  split  peas,  oatmeal,  etc., 
stacked  up.  With  a  hammer  she  alternately  rained  blows 
on  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  and  a  box  she  was  en- 
deavoring to  open  by  driving  the  nails  further  in. 

"I  bought  a  thousand  kinds  of  food,"  she  remarked, 
"and  I  can't  even  find  'em.  But  they're  here.  Oh,  here's 
the  bacon  now,  and  the  evaporated  potatoes  and  dessi- 
cated  eggs.  We'll  have  'em  for  breakfast." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  in  a  place  where  any  farmer'll 
bring  you  a  load  of  fresh  potatoes,  some  yap  has  sold 
you  these?"  asked  the  colonel,  kicking  at  the  square  tin 
of  evaporated  potatoes.  "Why,  you  have  to  soak  'em  six 
hours  before  cooking,  and  then  when  boiled  they're  mush. 
And  the  canned  eggs !  We  call  'em  desecrated  eggs  out 
West" 

"The  Arctic  explorers  take  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Jimmy, 
stiffly.  "Then  let's  have  beans !" 

"Ten  hours  to  cook  on  slow  fire.  Very  liable  to  burn," 
said  the  colonel.  "You'll  have  to  put  a  stick  of  wood  into 
that  sheet-iron  stove  every  five  minutes,  too,  you  know. 
How  about  the  bread  ?" 

"The  book  says  how,"  replied  Mrs.  Jimmy,  who  had 
decided  to  keep  her  temper  if  it  killed  her.  "I'll  begin 
now !" 

The  colonel  wigwagged  his  son  to  join  him  behind  the 
big  tent.  "Everything  she's  got  takes  about  six  hours  to 
cook,"  he  said.  "Now,  you  listen  to  me.  You  arrange 
with  a  farmer  to  bring  you  bread  every  other  day,  and 
pies  and  cakes  when  you  want  'em.  He'll  be  tickled  to 
death  to  sell  to  you.  Also  green  vegetables  and  fruit, 
milk  and  butter.  Go  over  to  Westport,  buy  an  ordinary 
cookstove,  set  it  up,  and  you're  fixed.  Stop!  I'm  not 
done.  Where  a  wagon  can  come,  you  can  have  anything. 
The  stuff  you've  got  here  is  for  camping  along  trails, 

298 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

where  the  grub's  sacked  and  carried  by  packhorse.  You'll 
lose  about  one  thousand  dollars,  but  you'll  be  living  like 
a  white  man.  Might  as  well  begin  to  get  wise  first  as 
last.  Use  those  sleeping  bags  for  mattresses.  Have  a 
man  come  and  build  a  floor  in  that  tent.  Then  ship  half 
of  that  Winter  clothing  back  home.  Want  it  all  soggy 
from  damp?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  I  guess  I'll  go  with  it,"  sighed  Jimmy, 
gloomily,  as  he  looked  at  their  outfit.  "Seems  useless  to 
try  to  do  anything  with  all  that  mess." 

"Leave  it  to  me?"  asked  the  colonel.  "Yes?  Then 
I'll  cook  these  fish  with  some  bacon,  make  some  bannocks, 
and  you  and  Nell  take  some  crackers  and  canned  meat, 
and  stay  away  till  night." 

The  colonel,  on  the  black  horse,  which  had  browsed 
happily  in  the  meadow  near  by  all  night,  made  a  trip  to 
town.  Two  wagons  lumbered  after  him  when  he  re- 
turned, and  in  one  was  Yashami,  the  valet,  in  knicker- 
bockers and  flannel  shirt,  a  table,  cookstove  and  a  cargo 
of  vegetables,  eggs,  bread  and  some  planks. 

By  5  o'clock  no  one  would  have  known  the  place. 
"Blessed  if  the  blamed  thing  don't  look  like  the  picture  in 
one  of  her  ladyship's  camp  books,"  laughed  the  colonel, 
and  Yashami  and  the  teamsters  admiringly  said  it  was  a 
mighty  fine  house.  There  was  a  floor  to  the  tent,  and 
on  it  heavy  canvas.  The  air  mattresses,  blown  up,  occu- 
pied the  "sleeping  rooms,"  which,  with  their  partitions  of 
sheeting,  made  the  colonel  grunt  disdainfully.  The  air 
pillows  and  the  blankets  were  in  their  places.  Under  a 
small  tent  Yashami's  kitchen  gods  were  neatly  arranged, 
and  a  big  cookstove,  with  pipe  which  issued  forth  from 
the  side,  in  the  place  of  honor.  Mrs.  Jimmy's  cute  eight- 
een-inch  folding  table  went  back  to  town  with  surplus 
"conveniences,"  her  elephant  gun,  and  the  machetes  and 
were  nippers,  which  her  cousin  Stewart  who  had  been  on 
Shafter's  staff  in  Cuba,  had  recommended  for  use  in  the 
jungle. 

The  colonel  didn't  want  her  breaking  down  some  land- 
owner's barbed  wire  fences. 

The  beans,  hardtack,  100  pounds  of  dried  fruit,  the 
299 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

folding  stove,  the  ice  axes,  pack  saddles  and  cinch  ropes, 
the  combinued  ice  box  and  chiffonier,  recommended  by  a 
lady  clerk  as  a  most  novel  convenience,  went  to  one  team- 
ster's barn,  to  be  disposed  of  later,  when  the  colonel  got 
to  it.  Three  trunkfuls  of  various  things,  which  had  cost 
little  Mrs.  Jimmy  many  a  blinding  headache,  were  tagged 
and  sent  to  storage  in  New  York. 

Yashami  said  he  wouldn't  have  the  patent  steam  cooker 
around,  nor  half  of  the  aluminum  follals  in  the  dishes 
line.  He  also  condemned  the  "Little  Alice"  ("the  hunt- 
er's pet,"  the  book  called  it)  commonsense  cookstove,  use- 
ful when  only  a  pot  of  coffee  needed  cooking  ("small, 
compact,  a  constant  delight,"  said  the  book). 

Then,  one  teamster,  a  champion  fisherman,  picked  out 
a  few  Jock  Scotts  and  silver  doctors,  and  said  the  rest  of 
the  seven  hundred  lovely  flies  were  dead  ones  in  Adiron- 
dack waters.  Six  of  the  fancy  silver  mounted,  double 
jointed  rods  went  with  them,  and  some  one  hundred 
pounds  of  ammunition,  and  still  there  was  a  plentiful 
supply  left  for  the  young  De  Forrests  to  fret  over. 

"Now,  vamoose,  boys,  and  fix  it  all  up.  Here's  $10 
apiece ;  you've  earned  it,"  said  the  colonel,  at  last.  "Don't 
forget  the  bread  and  all  that,  three  times  a  week,  and  fetch 
over  the  mail.  I'll  ride  over  your  way.  Yashami,  we'll 
all  have  a  farewell  drink." 

"That's  great  stuff!"  said  the  big  teamster,  as  he 
downed  his  whisky.  "And  you  know  your  way  about, 
sir!" 

"Been  around  a  little  in  my  time,"  said  the  colonel. 


When  the  Jimmy  de  Forrests,  hungry  and  berry  stained 
of  mouth  and  hands,  came  near  their  camp,  Mrs.  Jimmy 
wanted  to  drown  herself  before  facing  that  awful  ordeal 
again,  but  Jimmy  knew  the  colonel  and  he  urged  her  on. 

There  was  the  colonel  in  a  red  sweater,  old  trousers 
and  moccasins,  reading  The  Sunday  Telegraph  as  he  lay 
at  full  length  on  the  ground,  while  from  Yashami's  do- 
main pleasant  odors  were  borne  to  the  hungry. 

300 


MRS.  JIMMY  GOES  CAMPING. 

"Father !"  shouted  Mrs.  Jimmy,  rushing  upon  the  pros- 
trate colonel.  "Oh,  you  dear,  dear,  darling!  How — 
where,  oh,  it's  too  much !"  She  knelt  beside  the  fairy  god- 
father and  burrowed  her  pretty,  sunburnt  face  in  his 
white  whiskers,  while  the  colonel  grinned  like  a  pleased 
chessv  cat.  "Guess  dinner's  ready,"  he  said,  after  Mrs. 
Jimmy  had  given  him  a  hearty  hug.  "And  if  you  kids 
will  wash  your  dirty  paws  we'll  eat.  Here's  Yashami." 

"T'ank  you,  missus,  ready  in  a  minute,"  remarked 
Yashami,  politely,  as  he  looked  out  "You  have  a  nice 
walk,  yes?" 

The  happy  family  sat  down  to  supper,  and  Mrs.  Jimmy 
was  not  heard  to  express  one  regret  that  they  hadn't  al- 
lowed her  to  cook  it,  or  that  her  excess  baggage  had  dis- 
appeared. She  didn't  ask  where  it  was  gone,  and  only 
hoped  inwardly  it  wouldn't  turn  up  again. 

"Ain't  that  a  pretty  sunset?  Better'n  last  night,  I  do 
believe,"  said  the  colonel  later,  as  they  sat  on  a  log  by 
the  lake  shore.  Jimmy  winked  at  his  father.  "Bully," 
he  agreed. 

Mrs.  Jimmy  only  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and  patted  the 
colonel's  hand.  Yashami,  quite  at  home,  was  reading 
the  war  news  in  the  light  of  the  mended  folding  lantern, 
dabbing  at  the  mosquitoes.  Mrs.  Jimmy  didn't  even 
brush  them  away.  She  said  she  liked  'em,  because  they 
sounded  cheerful. 


The   Weeping   Greaser's 
Revenge. 

WEEPING  Jesus  was  feeling  fine.  His  left  eye  had 
ceased  to  drip  with  its  usual  annoying  regularity,  and 
he  had  money.  Forty  dollars  Mexican  and  four  Ameri- 
can gold  eagles  made  a  pleasant  clinking  in  the  pockets 
of  his  overalls.  And  he  was  drunk!  Could  any-half 
Navajo  and  half  Greaser  human  ask  for  more? 

The  full  name  of  the  joyous  one  was  Jesus  Marie 
Romero.  The  prefix  "Weeping"  was  due  to  an  affect- 
ed tear  duct.  The  name,  though  picturesque,  was  not 
regarded  in  his  set  as  irreligious. 

He  was  filled  with  such  an  overwhelming  love  for  all 
races  and  all  men  that  he  threw  his  knife  into  a  clump 
of  sagebrush  as  he  caroled  a  merry  lay  and  ploughed 
through  the  alikali  sand  of  the  desert.  From  the 
banks  of  the  Rio  Virgin,  fifty  miles  away,  the  weeping 
one  had  ridden  with  a  freighter  carrying  supplies  to 
the  latest  copper  and  gold  camp  in  Southern  Utah. 

The  freighter  had  explained,  as  he  stood  treat  with 
two  "airtights"  of  tomatoes  and  a  canteen  of  water, 
that  water  was  a  mighty  scarce  article  at  the  new 
camp.  "They're  givin'  up  the  dough  like  I  never  see 
it,  an'  I  been  freightin*  in  Arizona,  where  we  wouldn't 
drink  ef  a  bar'l  didn't  have  a  menagerie  in  it,"  said 
he  with  a  grin.  "But,  do  tell !  Well,  inventions  is 
great  medicine.  They  laid  fifty  miles  of  pipe  line 
from  the  Virgin." 

"My!  Ees  t>eeg,  long  way!"  said  Weeping  Jesusr 
with  his  good  eye  bulging  and  the  bad  one  trying  to. 
"Cost  mooch,  eh?  How  they  do  dat?" 

302 


THE  WEEPING  GREASER'S  REVENGE. 

"Them  engineers  from  the  East  kin  do  anything,' 
said  the  freighter,  winding  his  blacksnake  whip  dex- 
trously  over  the  mules  until  it  cut  the  hide  of  the 
loafing  black  in  the  middle  of  his  team  of  twelve. 
All  the  little  bells  on  the  leaders  tinkled  as  the  lazy 
mule  jumped  ahead  and  started  up  the  rest.  Weep- 
ing Jesus  hung  on  tightly  and  ruminated.  "Where 
you  say  is  dees  camp?"  he  inquired  later.  "Once  I 
prospect  wid  Cap  Brown  over  that  away." 

"Doggonedest  place  you  ever  see,"  answered  the 
freighter.  "'Tain't  near  nothin'.  Let  o'  sandhills,  an' 
a  driedup  creek  bed.  But  they're  workin',  sinkin' 
shafts  two  hundert  feet.  Experts  say  they 'I1  have  six 
million  of  ore  in  sight  in  a  month  ef  they  git  water. 
Bigger'n  Tomopah.  It's  east  of  Hurricane  Ledge. 
You  know  them  little  hills." 

Weeping  Jesus  was  talking  Navajo  to  himself. 
Then  he  changed.  "Madre  Dios,  caliente!"  he  burst 
out,  holding  his  sticky  undershirt  away  from  hki 
sweaty  chest. 

"Yo  tambien,"  sighed  the  freighter.  "She's  a 
scorcher."  Weeping  Jesus  began  to  chuckle. 

"I'm  goin'  do  sumpin'  damn  good  fur  that  beeg 
camp,"  said  he.  "I  know  where  water  is  near — not 
need  pipes.  I  been  dere." 

"Oh,  you're  full  o'  booze  again,"  and  the  freighter 
laughed  cheerfully.  "Smoke  up!" 

His  guest  was  silent.  Later  he  climbed  into  the 
back  of  the  wagon,  on  top  of  a  load  which  contained 
anything  from  a  collapsible  house  to  a  saddle  blanket. 
He  pretended  to  go  to  sleep.  His  good  eye  had  spott- 
ed a  demijohn  of  whisky.  Further  along,  as  the 
wagon  creaked  through  a  little  group  of  trees  by  an 
alkili  spring,  the  guest  dropped  off,  and  the  demijohn 
went  with  him. 

It  was  early  dawn  when  Weeping  Jesus  hoofed  it 
into  camp.  The  stud  dealer  at  the  Chicago  House — 
an  enormous  tent — \vas  just  going  to  bed.  Prospect- 
ors, laborers  who  were  working  at  timbering  in  tun- 

303 


THE  WEEPING  GREASER'S  REVENGE. 

nels,  below  the  earth,  in  the  lava  formation,  and  all 
the  busy  men  of  a  mining  camp  were  stirring.  Long 
tables  in  a  tent  restaurant  had  crowds  eating  break- 
fast about  them,  as  the  Chinese  waiters  hustled  around 
with  the  grub.  Weeping  Jesus  had  quaffed  deeply 
of  the  filched  liquor  before  catching  it  for  future  refer- 
ence in  a  clump  of  cactus  before  making  his  entry  into 
camp. 

There  was  excitement  among  the  pioneers  Strange 
are  the  ways  of  fate  Weeping  Jesus,  full  of  booze  and 
loving  kindness,  had  hit  Copper  Camp  three  hours 
after  seven  Greasers  had  been  chased  out  of  it  for 
putting  halters  on  equine  property,  the  property  of 
others.  Angered  citizens  had  held  a  meeting  and  de- 
cided that  no  Greaser  should  pitch  his  tent  and  set 
up  housekeeping  for  ten  miles  around. 

While  Weeping  Jesus  felt  very  friendly,  it  must  be 
said  that  appearances  were  against  him.  He  was  a 
tough  proposition,  judging  by  looks.  His  oily  black 
hair  hung  in  dark  twists  around  his  face,  which  had 
never  been  beautiful.  He  wore  no  suspenders,  simply 
hitching  up  the  overalls  when  necessary.  On  his 
feet  were  moccasins. 

"Hey,  boys!  Run  the  hoss  theif  out  of  camp! 
Here's  another  Greaser  rustler!"  This  was  how  they 
greeted  him. 

"Lemme  lone!"  protested  the  startled  weeper.  "I 
got  money.  Want  to  leeve  in  beeg  camp.  Show  you 
heap  'beeg  water.  No  need  buy  pipe  line.  You  savvy 
when  I  show  you." 

The  man  with  the  biggest  mine,  who  consequently 
needed  the  most  water,  produced  a  gun. 

"Vamoose!"  he  roared.  He  was  a  mean  looking, 
red  faced  man,  and  he  had  lost  two  hundred  at  the 
bank  in  the  night,  which  made  him  meaner.  Other 
men  roared. 

\\feeping  Jesus  felt  his  eye  crying  like  everything 
again  from  rage.  And  he  had  thrown  away  his  knife, 

304 


THE  WEEPING  GREASER'S  REVENGE. 

trusting  these  creatures,  who  warned  away  those  who 
came  with  good  feeling  toward  all. 

"You  kip  on  gettin'  wat'  by  pipe.  I  kip  secret  now," 
he  yelled  defiantly.  "I'm  goin'  an'  you  be  feel  prett' 
bad,  too." 

To  the  eastward  green  grass  grew,  and  the  wide 
Colorado  of  the  West  flowed.  He  found  the  whisky 
and  lugged  it  with  him  over  the  desert.  He  slept 
under  some  dusty  sagebrush  a  few  hours  later,  remov- 
ing his  boots.  A  friendly  scorpion  crawled  in  one 
and  stung  Weeping  Jesus  on  the  big  toe.  After  that 
he  became  vicious  toward  all  things. 

At  "the  crossing  of  the  fathers"  on  the  Colorado  he 
met  vBilly-Jump-When-Cougar-Comes,  coming  from 
the  Navajo  country  with  a  little  outfit.  He  fed  the 
wanderer,  and  Weeping  Jesus  told  him  his  woes.  Also 
that  in  a  certain  spot,  covered  now  by  six  feet  of  des- 
ert sand  and  rock,  there  was  a  spring.  It  fed  a 
sunken  river,  such  as  abound  in  Utah.  If  one  dug  it 
out  and  worked  on  it  soon  there  would  be  water  in 
plenty,  for  the  Weeper's  Navajo  father  had  told  him 
how,  little  by  little,  the  great  spring  of  olden  days, 
being  off  the  traveled  trails,  had  filled. 

The  Navajo  with  the  long  name  was  smart,  and  he 
had  money.  Failing  to  get  the  location  from  Weep- 
ing Jesus,  he  made  an  offer.  He  was  educated,  and 
as  slick  as  any  white  man.  They  talked  business  for 
a  long  time. 

Three  months  later  a  small  gentleman  in  nifty  red 
silk  shirt,  wide  bottomed  velvet  trousers  and  large 
diamonds  about  his  person,  rode  his  fine  cayuse  to 
the  edge  of  Copper  Pond.  Out  of  the  desert  bubbled 
the  spring  which  never  ceased.  The  Water  Supply 
Company  had  a  monopoly.  Every  mine  around  paid 
them  high  prices  for  water.  The  man  with  the  big- 
gest property  had  come  up  to  make  a  futile  kick.  He 
declared  he  was.  paying  more  than  others. 

"It  seems  to  me  I've  seen  you  somewhere,"  said  he, 
observing  the  small  Greaser  closely. 

305 


THE  WEEPING  GREASER'S  REVENGE. 

Weeping  Jesus  pretended  to  yawn.  "I  reckon," 
said  he ;  "I  come  geeve  you  plent'  water  one  time,  an' 
you  pull  gun.  Now,  pay  price,  or  mebbe  we  not 
geeve  you  any." 

The  mine  owner  gasped.  Memory  was  calling. 
"We  chased  you  out  of  camp !"  he  exclaimed.  "By 
Gosh !  Now  I  remember !" 

Weeping  Jesus  curled  his  lip  in  scorn,  "i  guess  I 
go  take  bath  in  my  lake,"  he  observed.  "Good  day." 


The   Sultan's   Troupe. 

THE  cool  river  wind  came  in  through  the  window 
of  Habib's  big  kitchen  in  Washington  street.  A 
party  was  being  given  for  Amena,  the  dancer  from 
Algiers,  and  her  husband,  Edouard,  the  juggler.  All 
present  were  show  people  but  Fatima,  the  black  cook 
from  the  Nile,  and  Habib,  the  host.  He  kept  the  cafe 
in  front,  where  Arabs  and  Syrians  were  dining  upon 
native  dishes. 

"First,  we  want  get  little  dreenk,"  said  George 
Romay,  the  camel  driver.  "All  have  dreenk  wid  me." 

"You  musi'  mak'  win  at  shoot  the  craps,"  bantered 
Yousouf,  the  Turk. 

"I  ain't  lose  none,"  replied  George,  gaily.  "One 
time  las'  week  I  get  so  far  behind  I  t'ink  I  lose  Holy 
Mbses,  but  throw  seven  t'ree,  eight  time,  an'  now  got 
'nother  camel  name  Tedore  Roosavelt.  He's  beeg  fine 
wan,  too.  Fat'ma,  breeng  arrack  to  all."  Habib 
brought  a  tray  of  sweets  and  coffee,  in  tiny  cups. 
When  the  smiling  Fat'ma  had  brought  liquor,  with 
a  dish  of  green  watercress  and  raw  tomato,  to  take 
away  the  bite  of  it,  Hassen,  Abdallah  Ben  Hamidi 
and  his  son  Charlie;  Zarah,  the  Persian  whirling 
dancer,  and  Lalla  Turquoi,  from  Morocco,  disposed 
themselves  upon  two  wide  settees.  Lalla  dreamily 
smoked  her  favorite  narghile,  the  rest  partook  of 
Abdallah's  offered  cigarettes/. 

"You  goin'  have  Holy  Moses  at  Dreamland?"  in- 
quired Amena,  from  her  rocker  by  the  sink.  "You 
bet,"  replied  George  Romay."  I  was  beeg  success 
last  year  Dreamland.  They  ver  glad  have  me  back." 

"You  got  good  camel,  I  mus'  say,"  observed  Zarah. 

307 


THE  SULTAN'S  TROUPE. 

"I  ain'  ride  on  camel  since  I  leave  my  fadder 
Khosrul's  nakhil"  (palm  orchard). 

"That  ain't  long  'go  replied  Yousouf  gallantly. 
"Street  car  is  more  easy  as  camel,  anyhow.  Fat'ma, 
breeng  match,  plees." 

Anxious  for  a  compliment  upon  her  own  beauty, 
Amena  spoke  coquettishly.  "I'm  gettin'  be  ol'  woman, 
myself,"  said  she,  lowering  her  black  lashes,  "pretty 
soon ;  mebbe  get  too  fat  to  dance.  How  you  make 
ans'  to  that?" 

;'No  ans'  to  mak',"  said  Abdallah,  cruelly,  "All 
wimmens  get  old  some  times,  Amena.  You 
ain't  mak'  you  look  young,  by  bleach  your  hair 
yella.  Ver'  foolish."  Amena  pouted.  "I  got  plenty 
peop'  lak  me,  an'  ain't  think  I'm  ver'  old,  jus'  the 
same!"  she  retorted.  Habib  fetched  a  plate  of  pis- 
tache  nuts.  "Amena  is  fine  gal,"  said  he,  warmly. 
"Have  lots  fellas  'round  want  get  to  know  when  with 
my  troupe." 

"That  troupe  you  take  out  las'  year?"  asked  Hassen 
grinning.  "I  hear  all  about  that.  How  you  come  out, 
eh?"  Then  Habib  told  this  tale:  "Biffor  I  get  this 
place,  I  ain'  got  mooch  money,"  said  he.  "I  got  with 
tumblin'  act  with  circus,  an'  show  bust  up.  It  leave 
me  with  'bout  forty  dollar/way  out  in  Chicog.  Ees 
Winter  time,  an'  beeg  top  shows  don't  start  out  till 
Spreeng  again.  An'  I  got  to  eat.  Amena  an'  Edouard 
is  long  with  me,  an'  Sokari  Family,  Japnese  acrobats. 

"We  git  HI  flat  an'  I  buy  for  all,  'but  we  got  beeg  ap' 
an'  li'l  to  eat.  That  ain'  no  good  way  to  be.  So  I 
look  'round  an'  frame  up  scheme.  We  start  a  show 
our  own  self.  See?  It's  called  'the  Sultan  of  Mor- 
occo's Own  Acrobatic  Troupe,  direct  from  Theatre 
Royale,  with  twent'  high-class  act.'  We  got  HI  top- 
mounter  an,  two  Germans,  fat  'nough  to  look  lak 
Orientals.  They  do  rassling  'bout  an*  open  show,  then 
work  with  me  an'  kid  in  tumblin'  act. 

"I'm  oldest  understander  in  the  beezness,  an'  we  get 
up  good  turn.  Nex',  Amena  an'  her  muscle  dance, 

308 


THE  SULTAN'S  TROUPE. 

then  Edouard  juggle,  an*  two  gals  from  museum  who 
seeng  an'  dance  a  little,  so  I  hire  them." 

"Who  books  the  show?"  asked  Yousouf,  practically. 

"Eet  don't  need  to  be  book,"  answered  Habib. 
"Tain't  that  kind  of  show.  Ef  eet's  advertise,  peop' 
fin'  out  where  I  am,  an'  that  I  don'  want.  We  go 
long,  play  all  li'l  burgs  where  they  don'  know  nothing. 
Get  in  town,  hire  hall  an'  me'n  Edouard  meex  up  two 
pails  of  paste,  tak'  the  brush  'long  an'  bill  the  show. 
By  night  everybody  know,  an'  we  get  a  pack  house. 
Charge  feefty  an'  seventy-five  cents." 

"Amena  say  you  have  moving  pitch,"  put  in  Lalla. 
"How  'bout  them?" 

"We  got  pitch  in  the  bills,  that's  all,"  said  Habib. 
"'Watt.  First  thing  Edouard  finds  where  good 
theatre  piano  player  is  an'  foreeng  him  to  me.  I'm 
willing  pay  you  high,'  I  say.  'Give  you  seven  dollar 
play  my  show  to-night.  You  only  got  play  soft  for 
jugglin,'  Midway  for  Oriental  dance  for  lady  an,  two 
songs  for  sister  team.  When  eet's  all  dark  for  mov- 
ing pitch,  you  kip  on  play  soft  an'  low  for  five  minute, 
while  drop  is  getting  read'.  See?' 

"Course,  he  tickle  to  death.  By  Allah!  Some- 
time I  got  turn  away  so  won't  laff.  Show  begins  at 
eight.  Edouard  knows  plent'  Eenglish,  so  he  tend 
to  railroad  tick',  an'  fin*  out  when  train  goes.  The 
show  begin  with  me  on  door  in  my  mak'  up  of  Arabian 
tak'  the  tick'. 

"The  train  leaves  about  9  o'clock — mebbe  later. 
When  acts  is  all  done  we  all  wash  up  queeck,  get  out 
by  stage  door  in  alley  one  by  one,  an'  go  to  deppo. 
Nobody  left  but  Edouard  an'  sister  team  at  9.  He  go 
out  an*  mak'  li'l  speech  when  gals  is  done. 

"'Ladies  an'  gelman,'  he  say,  'kip  your  seats,  plees. 
The  house  goin'  be  dark  five  minutes  biffor  moving 
pitcher.  The  piano  player  goin'  entertain  you.  Don't 
stop  play/  he  say  to  fella  at  piano,  an*  he  begins  play 
loud.  Sister  team  beats  it  to  deppo  in  mak'-up,  in 
hack  we  hire,  with  Edouard.  They  ain'  no  stage 

3°9 


THE  SULTAN'S  TROUPE. 

hands,  an'  I  cop  all  coin  out  of  box  office,  becos  we 
don't  split  no  per  cent, — jus'  pay  fifteen  dollar  for  hall. 
Piano,  fella  still  playin'  lak  fun  an'  peop'  waitin' 
for  the  rest  of  twent'  turns.  We  get  train,  ride  to 
nex'  place  an'  get  fine  beeg  sleep  biffor  give  next  show. 
In  the  spreeng  I  come  back  an'  buy  cafe  an'  still  got 
money  in  bank.  Any  man  can  get  'long  here  eef  he 
know  'nough." 


The   Noodle's   Flat. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Noodle  had  lived  in  hotels  for  a  long 
time.  They  got  along  very  nicely,  but  they  couldn't 
save  any  money.  Noodle  belonged  to  a  couple  of  clubs, 
bought  a  drink  when  any  one  else  did,  and  if  he  saw 
a  nifty  shirt  at  $9,  with  a  sweetly  nobby  monogram 
branded  on  the  sleeve,  he  didn't  ask  the  clerk  to  show 
him  one  for  $i .  50. 

Nellie  Noodle  was  an  actress,  whenever  she  could 
get  a  part  in  a  show  which  played  only  on  Broadway. 
She  simply  would  not  fall  for  the  one  night  stand  gag, 
and  anyway,  Noodle  didn't  want  her  to  go  so  far  away 
from  his  side.  He  was  a  crafty  man  of  much  experi- 
ence in  circles  when  folks  stay  up  late,  and  he  knew 
that  too  many  had  been  lost  in  just  that  way.  Nellie 
took  breakfast  in  bed  if  she  felt  tired,  otherwise  she 
repaired  to  a  Broadway  restaurant,  met  some  of  the 
mob,  and  cheerfully  began  the  day  by  pleasant  con- 
verse. 

And  one  day  she  heard  about  Mazie  Mulligatawny's 
flat.  Mazie  declared  that  at  last  when  Summer  came 
that  long,  hard  wait  between  engagements  for  the 
earnest  show  gell,  she  could  look  at  Mister  Hot 
Weather  and  smile.  And  why?  Because  she  now 
kept  house  in  a  flat  and  saved  money.  To  demon- 
strate, her  saving  propensities  she  let  Nellie  settle 
for  the  food  they  were  having  in  exchange  for  the 
info  on  the  flat  question. 

"I  have  four  lovely  rooms  and  bath,"  safd  Mazie, 
"and  oh,  my  dear,  the  comfort  of  having  enough  room 
to  turn  around  in!  And  only  $40  a  month!"  Now, 
$40  a  month  is  mighty  small  money,  as  any  one  will 

3" 


THE  NOODLES'  FLAT 

tell  you.  The  extravagant,  reckless  Noodles  paid  $30 
a  week  in  a  hotel  for  two  rooms  and  bath.  It  is 
easily  seen  that  Mazie  got  a  whole  month  for  ten 
more  than  they  paid  for  a  week. 

Nellie  asked  further  particulars.  Mazie  explained 
that  she  had  a  darling  little  icebox  and  loads  of  milk 
and  eggs  and  fruit,  and  as  for  little  bites,  with  a  bottle 
of  beer  at  night  and  breakfast  arrayed  comfortably  in 
thin  garments,  life  was  a  delicious  dream.  Nellie 
Noodle  sighed.  Whenever  she  wanted  a  pitcher  of 
ice  water  she  had  to  tip  the  boy  for  bringing  it,  and 
you  know  you  don't  get  much  in  a  restaurant  portion 
of  fruit. 

"Are — are  there  other  flats  in  the  house,  my  dear?" 
she  asked.  Nellie  had  an  idea.  I'll  give  you  one 
chance  to  guess  what  it  was. 

Next  day  it  was  very  hot  in  town,  but  a  woman  who 
has  her  mind  made  up  cares  little  for  weather.  And 
by  night  seven  hundred  persons  had  been  confiden- 
tially informed  that  Ned  and  Nellie  Noodle  were  going 
to  live  in  a  flat.  Nellie  rented  a  flat  in  the  house 
where  Mazie  dwelt  so  happily.  There  were  no  $4o 
flats  left,  because  the  front  ones  were  $65,  but  that 
was  only  $25  more,  and  see  what  they  would  save! 

Ned  Noodle  was  an  agent  for  a  whisky  house,  and 
before  long  he  had  asked  all  his  friends  if  his  little 
wife  wasn't  a  wond-er,  because  she  was  going  to 
make  a  regular  home  for  her  old  man,  and  cook  and 
all  that,  and  just  enjoy  herself?  The  Noodles  moved. 
They  paid  deposits  on  gas,  electric  light,  mineral 
water  bottles,  and,  of  course,  the  rent  in  advance. 
They  boucht  furniture,  and  the  moment  they  were  in 
the  place  found  the  usual  amount  of  necessary  articles 
had  been  forgotten.  In  the  basement  of  the  house 
was  a  little  tailor  shop,  and  the  owner  should  press 
Ned's  clothes. 

After  spending  $30  in  tips  and  a  week  at  switching 
their  effects,  the  Noodles  were  all  fixed.  The  first 
night  they  had  time  to  notice  things  a  fearful,  all- 

312 


THE  NOODLES'  FLAT 

enveloping  odor  of  cooking  onions  came  up  the  dumb- 
waiter. It  was  a  sicent  so  robust  that  it  wouldn't  be 
kept  out,  and  it  settled  down  for  a  long  visit  in  cor- 
ners of  the  bathroom,  which  was  a  dark,  mysterious 
little  box,  looking  upon  the  air  shaft,  so  named  be- 
cause there  never  was  any  air  in  it,  and  in  the  folds 
of  the  portieres.  When  the  scent  had  made  itself 
at  home  two  men  called  to  ask  the  Noodles  out  to 
dine. 

They  went.  Passing  out  the  front  door — this  was 
a  very  flatty  flat,  and  there  was  no  elevator — they 
found  the  janitor's  cute  little  German  children,  with 
twenty-two  little  friends,  all  smuttyfaced  and  soiled 
of  clothing,  wedged  upon  the  steps.  The  tailor's 
family  sat  there  also,  because  they  lived  in  the  base- 
ment and  had  a  right  to  sit  on  their  own  steps.  It 
was  just  what  Mazie  had  said,  "So  homelike,"  and 
one's  view  merely  depended  upon  early  associations. 

The  milkman  came  every  morning  at  6  A.  M.  If 
the  milk  was  left  to  ride  up  and  down  on  the  dumb- 
waiter— which  wasn't  very  dumb,  at  that,  because 
it  squeaked  and  creaked  like  a  lost  soul  when  it 
made  trips — it  turned  sour  or  the  woman  on  the  first 
floor,  a  thrifty  soul,  copped  the  cream  from  the  top 
of  the  bottle.  So  Ned  had  to  get  up  and  take  it,  and 
no  sooner  was  he  snoozing  again  than  the  whistle 
sounded  and  the  baker's  man  sent  up  the  rolls, 

They  gave  the  janitor  fifty  cents  a  week  to  grab 
the  whole  bunch,  including  the  ice,  and  keep  it  in 
his  icebox.  He  was  a  man  whose  only  aim  was  to 
please,  and  he  kept  so  much  of  it  that  there  was 
hardly  any  use  in  annoying  the  Noodles  by  sending 
the  remnants  up  at  all.  Then,  on  some  days  he  went 
out  before  9  o'clock,  and  the  angry  Noodles  rang  and 
cussed  (yes,  both  of  them !)  and  cussed  and  rang,  and 
when  he  got  back  at  n  they  got  their  stuff. 

Nellie  found  that  it  was  quite  possible  to  cook  any- 
thing in  the  world  in  a  flat.  But  it  had  to  be  bought 
first,  and  then  cooked  and  served.  And  after  that 

313 


THE  NOODLES'  FLAT 

one  washed  the  dishes.  There  was  no  room  for  a 
servant,  because  there  wasn't  enough  for  Ned  and 
Nellie. 

They  lost  all  track  of  how  much  it  cost  to  live  as 
they  were  doing.  It  cost  all  they  had,  so  what  use 
to  keep  count  of  it?  They  had  been  there  four  weeks 
and  two  days.  By  the  most  wonderful  management 
Nellie  had  held  out  $65  for  the  second  month's  rent. 

It  was  6  o'clock.  She  was  cooking  a  dinner,  red- 
faced,  tired  and  hatin?  everything,  including  herself. 
Ned  was  grouchily  chopping  ice  and  shooing  flies 
away.  They  were  eating  at  home  because  Ned  had 
just  scraped  up  the  money  to  pay  back  to  his  best 
friend  a  loan  which  he  had  negotiated  so  they  could 
buy  furniture.  He  had  70  cents  left,  and  so  it  was 
better  to  stay  home. 

Once  the  pair  had  been  merry  and  care-free,  welcom- 
ing the  dinner  hour.  Now  they  detested  it.  The 
bell  rang.  It  was  an  old  pal,  Bill  Dobbs,  manager  of 
the  musicial  comedy  in  which  Nellie  had  been  playing 
when  she  met  Ned.  Bill  told  his  past  in  three 
minutes.  He  had  money,  and  lots  of  it,  made  from  a 
chain  of  ten-cent  theatres.  He  laughed  when  he  saw 
Nellie.  The  Noodles  and  Bill  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  the 
former  poured  out  their  unhappy  tale. 

"Quit!"  said  Bill.  But  they  couldn't.  It  takes 
money  to  move. 

"When's  the  rent  up?"  asked  Bill.  It  was  up  the 
next  day.  "What's  that  infernal  smell?"  he  went  on 
interestingly.  It  was  only  a  mess  of  spaghetti  which 
Nellie  had  worked  over  an  hour,  cracking  finely  in  the 
kitchen  and  sending  forth  a  black  cloud  of  smoke. 
Bill  dashed  out,  shed  his  coat  and  grabbed  the  sauce- 
pan. 

"Aw,  come  on  out  and  feed !"  he  exclaimed.  "Here, 
borrow  from  me — take  $500.  Pay  it  back  in  1920. 
I'll  help  you  pack  tonight." 

The  Noodles  gazed  at  him  hopelessly.     "Don't  be 


THE  NOODLES'  FLAT 

a  couple  of  mutts,"  he  added.  You  ain't  the  kind 
to  keep  house,  see?" 

Late  that  night  the  Noodles  and  their  savior  were 
still  packing.  At  8  A.  M.  a  van  took  the  furniture 
away,  and  a  porter  from  their  old  hotel  came  after 
the  trunks.  The  Noodles,  sleepy  but  contented,  rode 
joyously  away  in  a  cab.  That  night  Bill  took  Ned 
out  and  staked  him  to  play  the  bank.  They  won  out 
a  roll.  The  Noodles  were  again  able  to  live  in  the 
Bright  Light  District  like  the  rest  of  their  set. 

They  don't  care  if  they  never  save  any  money. 


Out  With   the    Big  Top. 

THE  Cook  &  Whitby  Two-Ring  Circus  was  in 
Texas.  No  high-heeled,  bragginsr  border  desperado 
had  anything  on  some  of  the  versatile  gentlemen  who 
traveled,  in  one  capacity  or  another,  under  the  banner 
of  the  circus.  "Cook  &  Whitby"  was  not  the  real 
title  of  Dunham's  circus.  It  was  only  the  grafters' 
pet  name  for  it. 

They  were  playing  a  night  stand  at  Burning  Lake 
when  a  rube  became  peevish  simply  because  Long 
Johnny  had  gracefully  separated  him  from  the  money 
just  received  for  permitting  Johnson's  paint  to  be 
advertised  on  the  roof  of  his  cow  barn. 

"Was  it  me  fault  the  old  geezer  can't  get  Joe  Hep 
to  which  shell  the  pea's  under?"  asked  Johnny,  of 
the  "Gov'nor,"  when  Mr.  Dunham  personally  inquired 
as  to  how  much  the  rube  had  been  shaken  down  for. 

"Is  he  still  beefin'?"  asked  Frisco  Billy,  the  ticket 
seller.  "It's  a  kindness  to  trim  them  babies.  They 
shouldn't  ought  to  be  let  out  without  a  guardeen.  I 
seen  a  feller  lynched  down  through  here,  when  I  was 
with  Myrtle  Peak's  old  show." 

"I  hope  they  ain't  doin'  none  that  playful  stringin' 
now,"  observed  Johnny,  humorously.  "I'm  darn 
perti'ler  about  my  collars."  He  drew  his  thin  alpaca 
coat  closely  about  himself,  displaying  the  outline  of  a 
44  in  a  hip  pocket.  "I'm  there  any  time  they  git 
funny,"  he  said,  seriously. 

Long  Johnny's  wife  was  with  the  show.  She  was  a 
voluptuous  brunette,  and  to  see  her  merrily  sliding 
along,  flashing  smiles  to  every  side,  upon  the  slack 
wire  was  an  inspiring  sight.  She  doubled  later  with 
the,  Giggoletti  Family,  swinging  from  her  trapeze 
across  to  Sammy  Jones'  stand  and  catching  Sammy's 

316 


OUT  WITH  THE  BIG  TOP. 

feet.  He  wasn't  a  regular  Giggoletti  either,  and  they 
did  say  that  he  thought  pretty  well  of  Mabel,  who 
was  Mrs.  Long  Johnny. 

Sammy  resembled  Johnny  somewhat.  Both  had 
small  shiny  black  mustaches  and  were  slim  and 
strong,  only  Johnny  was  the  toughest.  Mabel  herself 
didn't  object  to  trimming  a  live  one  when  the  chance 
occurred,  but  Sammy  didn't  know  it,  and  what  he 
didn't  know  couldn't  hurt  him. 

Long  Johnny  met  his  wife  in  the  cook  tent,  where 
she  was  putting  away  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
corned  beef  and  cabbage. 

"Listen  here,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  thrust  a  bag  of 
clinking  silver  and  gold  into  her  hand.  "They's  a 
pinch  liable  to  come  off — see?  I  may  blow  quick,  so 
plant  that  in  your  kick.  Just  as  well  to  be  ready  fur 
these  sheriff  guys.  They're  a  panhandlin'  outfit,  an* 
the  less  I  got  the  less  they  git.  Don't  worry." 

"I  ain't  a*  goin'  to,"  replied  his  wife,  calmly. 
"You're  over  seven." 

After  her  second  turn,  as  she  dropped  to  the 
ground  from  the  net,  Sammy  took  his:  bow  and  looked 
at  her  sadly, 

"Prepare  fur  bad  news,  dear  heart,"  he  said,  anx- 
iously. "Sumpin's  come  off.  Don't  you  go  faintin' 
or  none  o'  them  gags,  will  you?" 

"Gosh,  no!"  answered  the  fair  Mabel,  fretfully. 
"Holler  it  out !  I  s'pose  he's  been  fourflushin'  around 
with  that  gun  of  his,  an'  been  took  to  the  calaboose. 
Let  him  stick.  Ain't  it  an  elegant  house  to-night?" 

Sammy  gazed  upon  his  divinity  adoringly.  She 
might  seem  a  little  tarnished  to  others,  but  she  was 
his  star. 

"You're  the  game  gal,"  he  remarked.  "Some 
skirts'd  be  wailin'  an'  bawlin'." 

"Well,  I'm  draggin'  in  my  little  old  thirty-five  an' 
cakes,  an'  buyin'  my  own  wardrobe.  He  don't  do 
noth:n'  much  fur  me,  an'  I  just  wisht  he'd  have  to  stay 
in  Texas  forever!" 

317 


OUT  WITH  THE  BIG  TOP. 

Mabel  was  plainly  aggrieved. 

"Don't  wish  nothin'  so  fierce  as  that,"  and 
Sammy  shuddered. 

Long  Johnny,  they  ascertained,  was  still  at  liberty, 
because  he  had  discreetly  made  a  getaway,  after  slicing 
the  top  from  a  deputy  sheriff's  ear  with  his  knife. 
There  had  been  a  big  mix-up  and  now  many  of  the 
law's  minions  were  after  Johnny. 

Sammy  escorted  Mabel  to  the  cars,  across  the  damp 
lot,  through  a  muddy  clay* road,  and  up  a  slippery  path 
to  where  the  train  lights  showed.  All  about  the  cars 
was  bustle  and  life 

"Hold  up  your  hands!" 

A  big  gun  pointed  right  for  Sammy's  palpitating 
heart.  It  was  held  by  a  beetle-browed  Texan  with 
a  lantern. 

"I  want  you,  Mister  Man,"  he  announced  grimly. 
"We'll  take  the  worth  of  that  ear  out'n  your  hide." 

Sammy  swore  by  all  the  gods  of  ancient  Rome  that 
he  was  but  a  lowly  acrobat,  who  had  never  taken  an 
ear  which  wasn't  his  in  all  his  career. 

Mabel  asked  haughtily  if  the  stern  party  wasn't 
ashamed  to  scare  a  poor  boy,  and  if  he  couldn't  be  a 
gent  and  take  a  lady's  word? 

"I'm  from  Missoury."  said  the  deputy.  "Show  me! 
If  your  an  acrobat,  prove  it !" 

Sammy's  legs  were  wabblinsr  from  frieht.  because 
he  was  too  young  to  die  way  down  in  Texas. 

"I'll  do  a  twister  and  a  row  of  flips,  or  swaller  that 
there  gun,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

The  sheriff  held  the  lantern  aloft,  and  Mabel  held 
up  her  skirts — almost  as  high. 

Sammy  suddenly  stooped,  waved  his  long  legs  in 
the  air  and  in  a  minute  he  had  a  done  a  row  of  flips 
forward.  He  did  a  row  backwards,  then  a  "nip-up," 
ending  with  an  "Arab." 

"Am  I  there?"  he  inquired,  proudly,  landing  right 
side  up  by  the  sheriff. 

"Aw,  vamos  to  the  car;  you  ain't  the  man!"  cried 


OUT  WITH  THE  BIG  TOP. 

the  sheriff,  impressed,  but  naturally  grouchy. 

He  ran  into  Chicago  Frank  next,  the  magician,  who 
operated  a  side  show  and  ate  fire.  Mabel  and  Sammy 
lingered  near,  in  the  friendly  darkness. 

The  magician's  hands  went  up,  and  the  sheriff  de- 
manded information  as  to  his  identity.  By  the  lan- 
tern's rays  Frank  performed  a  portion  of  his  act.  He 
was  somewhat  nervous,  with  the  gun  in  such  unpleas- 
ant proximity,  but  he  found  coins  on  the  sheriff,  and 
quite  excited  the  simple  man. 

"Watch  this  coin !"  Frank  ordered,  palming  a  dollar 
in  the  hand  he  held  up.  The  sheriff  obeyed,  fascin- 
ated. Frank's  free  hand  had  brushed  his  patron's  vest 
for  a  brief  instant. 

"'Tain't  you,  neither,"  the  sheriff  declared,  gloomly; 
g'wan.  You're  safe." 

They  didn't  get  Long  Johnny.  It  was  a  little  crowd- 
ed under  the  Governor's  berth,  but  Johnny  was  an 
old  stager  and  he  didn't  kick.  The  train  moved  out. 
Sammy  and  Mabel  paused  by  the  Governor's  berth, 
in  the  half-darkness.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  kiss. 

Johnny,  underneath,  reached  out  a  hand,  which 
gripped  Mabel's  ankle.  He  yanked  viciously  at  her 
stocking,  bringing  away  his  own  store  of  money 
securely  cached  there  by  his  wife.  Then  he  came  out, 
rather  grimy  and  sweaty,  but  calm.  "Beat  it!"  he 
said  contemptuously.  "You  kin  have  her." 

But  the  craven  Sammy  had  basely  deserted  her, 
coward  that  he  was.  Chicago  Frank  hurled  himself 
into  this  domestic  tangle. 

"Don't  cry,  Mabel,"  he  urged.  "You'n  John'll 
make  it  up.  Here's  sumpin*  fur  you.  I  saved  it." 

Mabel,  stifling  her  sobs,  feebly,  but  interestedly, 
inquired  what  it  was. 

"That  onery  sheriff's  watch,"  said  Frank. 

Mabel  ceased  to  weep.  "Didn't  you  get  nothin'  fur 
yourself?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  got  his  roll,"  replied  Frank.     "Good  night." 


319 


A   Woman    of   the    Hills. 

FROM  the  trail  below  the  yellow  pines  came  the  bawl  of 
a  mule,  protesting  as  he  strained  upward  under  a  heavy 
pack  of  ore  samples.  Tim  Dawson's  wife  looked  up  from 
her  cooking,  rubbing  her  eyes,  which  smarted  from  the 
campfire's  thick  smoke.  "Is  that  you,  paw?"  she  called, 
in  a  high,  thin  voice. 

"Hike!  Git  'long,  you  hellians!  Bite  'em,  Scotty! 
Keep'm  in  that  trail !"  roared  a  male  voice,  but  not  in  reply 
to  her.  A  dog  barked  excitedly  in  answer.  It  was  the 
collie  herding  the  pack  train  into  line.  The  beans  were 
bubbling  in  their  bucket,  but  the  danger  of  burning,  after 
three  hours  of  keeping  up  a  fire,  was  too  great  for  Flora 
Dawson  to  leave  them  for  even  a  moment.  She  put  a 
hand  upon  her  flat  bosom,  as  if  to  support  her  tired  voice. 

"Tim  !  Oh,  Tim !"  she  shouted,  but  the  voice  broke  into 
a  sob.  "He  hearn  me,  the  scalawag!"  she  said,  resent- 
fully. "Been  prospectin'  two  weeks,  an'  ain't  a-goin'  to 
even  say  howdy  till  the  mules  is  fixed.  I  had  a  right  not 
to  fix  nothin'  to  eat." 

The  animals  were  thrashing  around  in  the  brush  now. 
They  had  halted,  and  Tim  was  taking  their  packs  off.  In 
five  minutes  he  appeared.  "Hello,  ol'  woman!"  he  said. 
"Howdy !" 

"I'm  good  'nough  !"  said  his  wife,  snappily.  She  turned 
away,  that  he  should  not  see  her  eyes,  hungering,  like  a 
dog's,  for  a  word  of  love. 

"The  hell  you  say !"  he  replied,  flippantly.  "Well,  rus- 
tle grub.  I  ain't  et  since  mornin',  an'  the  trail  from  Injun 
Lake  ain't  no  feather  bed.  Got  any  meat?" 

"Bacon,"  she  said,  shortly. 

He  stared  at  her  ferociously.  "I  leave  you  a  hull  deer," 
320 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

he  began,  "an'  you  got  none  left.  Been  feedin'  some  your 
friends  from  Wyomin'?  'Scuse  me,  I  didn't  know  but 
what  you'd  callers,  Mis'  Dawson.  Where's  them  brats  ?" 

"The  chillen  is  a-huntin'  huckleberries,"  she  said,  stir- 
ring the  beans,  "an'  they  ain't  brats.  Quit  a-callin'  'em  so. 
As  fur  the  deer  meat,  we  used  some,  an'  a  cougar  come  in 
camp  one  night  an'  carried  off  the  rest." 

"An'  you  couldn't  stir  a  step  to  throw  a  shot  into  him  ?" 
he  inquired.  "Jest  let  him  do  as  he  felt  like  ?  It's  a  pity 

you'' He  ceased,  because  she  was  half  kneeling  in 

the  ashes,  her  eyes  streaming.  "Snivellin'  again!"  he 
commented,  and  turned  back  to  the  mules. 

She  got  up,  her  shoulders  shaking. 

'  'Tain't  no  use ;  none  at  all,"  she  whispered.  "He's 
come  back  worse'n  he  went  away.  Why,  I  can't  help  the 
chillen  eatin'  the  meat.  I  can't  help  nothin'.  Oh,  I  can't 
go  on  livin'  like  a  hawg  no  longer,  clear  off  n  the  hills  like 
this,  an'  jest  a-sweatin'  blood.  A'sweatin'  blood!"  she  re- 
peated; "just  a-swtatin'  blood.  I  wouldn't  a-keered  if  I 
had  a  cookstove." 

There  was  a  shack  near  by  which  Dawson  and  his  part- 
ner the  Red  Swede,  had  built  six  months  before,  when  the 
gold  rush  had  been  on  into  Northern  Idaho.  The  pair 
had  taken  up  claims  and  laid  out  a  townsite,  exulting  that 
they  were  first  on  the  ground,  and  when  the  tenderfeet  ar- 
rived they  expected  to  clean  a  financial  harvest  that  would 
beat  digging  in  the  hills.  But  the  rush  passed  on,  locating 
in'the  "big  camp"  ten  miles  up  the  creek,  and  the  part- 
ners, instead  of  selling  space  in  "Dawson  City"  for  cabins, 
were  broke.  Two  weeks  later  not  a  prospector  was  left  in 
the  "big  camp."  They  had  all  gone  on  fifty  miles,  trailing 
a  rumor  of  richer  values  ahead,  as  is  a  prospector's  way. 

Dawson  had  sold  his  little  general  store  back  in  a  small 
town,  and,  having  no  money  after  buying  an  outfit,  the 
family  had  been  brought  along,  over  a  hundred  miles  of 
mountain  trail,  into  a  land  of  rocks  and  barrenness.  The 
two  little  boys  had  ridden  on  the  same  pinto  pony.  The 
girl,  behind  her  mother.  The  money  gone,  they  settled 

321 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

down  to  live  where  they  had  lit.  The  Red  Swede  got  cold 
feet  and  struck  off  in  the  wake  of  the  rush. 

Dawson  prospected,  and  with  no  success.  He  rode  to 
the  camp  further  on  and  found  it  a  rich  man's  country. 
Machinery  there  was  none  to  work  the  low  grade  ore; 
hence  wages  were  low,  because  few  men  were  needed. 
His  meagre  supply  of  grub  ran  out,  and  with  no  money 
to  pay  the  high  camp  prices,  he  returned  to  his  family. 
After  that  he  made  brief  trips,  carrying  a  store  of  provi- 
sions. They  had  plenty  for  a  long  time  yet. 

His  wife  tended  the  four  sore-backed  mules  he  had  left 
behind.  Each  day  she  tramped  miles  after  them,  as  they 
wandered  further  up  the  canyon  searching  for  feed.  If 
they  lost  the  mules  they  could  never  get  away.  Return- 
ing, she  drove  them  into  a  rope  corral,  cleaned  their  vari- 
ous wounds,  and  let  them  go  again.  The  children  must 
be  taught.  Her  tiny  store  of  old  novels  and  thumbed 
spelling  books  was  all  she  had.  From  these  she  laboriously 
instructed  her  unruly  class,  which  had  no  desire  to  learn. 

Three  times  a  day  she  cooked.  The  oldest  boy  lugged 
in  dead  branches,  but  she  dared  not  trust  him  with  the 
ax,  for  fear  he  would  break  the  handle  or  dull  the  blade, 
and  axes  were  precious.  So  she  felled  trees  and  chopped 
them  into  fire  wood. 

Her  hands  were  grained  with  dust,  her  feet  bare — as 
were  the  children's,  to  save  the  shoes  for  winter — 
scratched  and  swollen.  The  swarming,  persistent  gnats 
had  left  red  marks  on  her  face  and  neck  under  the  little 
knot  of  faded  light  brown  hair.  Tim  Dawson's  wife  was 
not  beautiful,  and  she  was  dying  of  cancer.  The  pure 
air  and  water  of  the  hills  could  not  help  it.  Dawson  knew 
it,  and  that  there  was  a  chance  to  save  her.  Money  only 
would  do  it. 

In  his  way  he  loved  her.  But  the  sight  of  her  misery 
aroused  a  wild  railing  against  Fate  inside  him,  and  in- 
stead of  soothing  words  he  hid  his  ache  behind  a  terrify- 
ing gruffness.  It  was  his  idea  that  should  he  display  any 
weakness  the  woman  would  give  up  and  die  at  once.  He 

322 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

had  brought  $20  back,  earned  by  doing  location  work  for 
a  man  met  on  the  trail. 

As  the  sun's  last  cold  rays — it  was  nearing  October — 
struck  the  pines  the  children  came  quarrelling  down  the 
hillside.  They  brought  up  at  the  fire,  one  whining,  while 
the  other  two  shrilly  trumpeted  their  version  of  a  recent 
affray.  One  kicked  the  bean  pail  over.  With  a  knifelike 
stab  in  her  pain  wrenched  back,  the  mother  got  up,  slapped 
the  girl  furiously,  and  hysterically  bade  the  boys  get  away. 
Thev  engaged  in  instant  warfare. 

"Oh,  QUIT !"  cried  the  woman,  crying  weakly.  "My 
God !  here  I  got  a  worse  fit'n  ever,  an'  yuh  a-drivin'  me 
crazy ! !  Washin'  in  two  quart  buckets  all  day  long  to- 
day, an'  choppin'  wood,  AN'  cookin',  an'  them — them 
damned  mules !"  She  breathed  hard,  while  the  children 
looked,  mouths  open. 

Daw  son  walked  up  to  the  group. 

"That  ain't  no  fit  way  to  talk,"  he  reproved ;  "no  way, 
that  ain't.  The  idee  of  a  decent  woman  cursin'." 

Defiantly  she  glared  at  him.  The  pale  sun  rays  showed 
the  sickly  white  of  her  face,  under  the  grime  of  a  long 
day's  toil.  "Mebbe  yuh  say  I  ain't  decent  ?"  she  demand- 
ed, clenching  one  bony  fist  against  her  breast.  "Why 
don't  yuh  ?  Yuh  might's  well." 

"Oh,  HELL!"  he  exclaimed,  and  snatched  up  the  pan 
of  smoking  bacon  she  had  placed  on  a  log  where  the  heat 
from  the  coals  beneath  would  fry  it.  He  shook  the  bacon 
about,  muttering  to  himself. 

"Say,  pop,  didn't  you  bring  us  nothin'  ?"  cried  the  little 
girl. 

"No,"  said  her  father,  "I  didn't.  Hain't  got  no  money 
for  to  buy  truck.  Here !  Go  wash  your  face  'fore  you 
come  t'  supper.  You  young  uns  act  like  you  was  pigs." 

His  own  hands  were  hard  and  soiled,  his  flannel  shirt 
sweaty  and  discolored,  but  something  told  him  that  his 
children  should  at  least  go  through  oue  of  the  ceremonies 
of  civilized  life. 

"You're  a-keepin'  'em  like  woodrats,"  he  remarked. 

The  family  sat  down  to  eat  at  a  rude,  homemade  table. 

323 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

They  fed  like  animals,  the  woman  eating  for  the  mere  feel 
of  temporary  warmth  and  well-being,  and  not  because  she 
wanted  it ;  the  children  snatching,  with  greasy  fingers,  at 
the  hot  bannocks  she  had  baked.  Their  parents  did  not 
speak  to  each  other.  Dawson  had  intended  throwing  his 
money  into  his  wife's  lap  with  a  cheery  word.  Instead,  he 
had  snarled  at  her,  and  now  regretted  it,  but  would  not  ad- 
mit it.  He  had  made  a  record  trip,  riding  forty-five  miles 
over  summits  covered  with  slide  rock,  and  this  woman 
didn't  even  consider  how  tired  he  was.  He  forgot  that  he 
had  told  her  nothing  about  it. 

His  wife,  carefully  scraping  up  the  last  bit  of  bacon 
grease  with  a  chunk  of  soggy  "baking  powder"  bread,  was 
thinking  bitterly  of  a  life  spent  at  drudgery  for  a  man  who 
cared  nothing  for  her.  Above  them,  the  noble  hills  reared 
upward,  their  sides  dressed  in  the  dark  green  of  pine  and 
spruce.  The  air  was  cool  with  the  healthy  coldness  of  a 
high  altitude.  Yet  they  got  no  good  from  it,  nor  from 
living  close  to  nature.  Their  sordid,  hard  working  lives 
had  no  idle  moments  to  waste  in  contemplation  of  the 
things  about  them.  At  night  they  slept,  huddled  together 
in  the  shack,  with  no  ventilation  and  no  desire  for  any, 
in  the  true  fashion  of  the  pioneer. 

The  next  day  they  arose  early.  Dawson's  wife  had 
added  to  her  other  ills  by  spikin'  her  foot  on  a  bare  rock. 
Every  time  she  set  the  foot  down  it  throbbed  until  her  ears 
sang.  Dawson  went  off  up  the  creek  to  look  for  a  deer. 
He  brooded  over  his  fancied  wrongs.  His  wife  had  not 
spoken  to  him  that  day,  and  he  decided  that  he  owned  the 
meanest  children  on  earth. 

"Onery  brats  they  be !"  he  said  aloud.  "Take  after  her." 

His  kind  knew  but  one  life,  that  of  never  ending  toil, 
relieved  at  intervals  by  a  prolonged  drunk,  during  which 
he  forgot  many  things.  And  now  the  wish  to  drink  came 
over  him  again. 

"  'Tain't  right,"  he  ruminated,  putting  down  his  rifle  as 
he  rested  on  a  ledge  of  rock.  "Nothin's  right.  I  don't 
git  no  thanks  for  worryin'  my  hide  off.  I'm  goin'  out  to 
Warren,  an'  see  the  boys  on  this  here  money.  I'm  a'goin' 

324 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

to-night!"     And  he  went  while  the  rest  slept. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Dawson  sat  beside  the  creek, 
laboriously  washing  out  the  last  pair  of  trousers  owned 
by  the  biggest  boy.  He  was  capering  about,  clad  in  a 
motley  assortment  of  garments  while  his  wardrobe  was 
being  freshened. 

"He's  quit  me,'"'  she  told  herself.  "I  knowed  he  would. 
I  was  good  'nough  when  I  had  my  looks.  I  can't  stand 
no  more."  The  cancer  was  eating,  it  seemed,  at  her  very 
heart.  She  was  much  weaker,  and  could  no  longer  go 
after  the  mules. 

"Say,  maw,  let's  go  home,"  begged  the  small  girl,  large 
eyed,  as  she  watched  the  woman's  strange  air. 

"We  ain't  got  no  home,  nor  nothin',"  replied  the  latter, 
somberly,  "wait  for  yer  pop.  He'll  take  yuh." 

The  days  \vere  shortening.  Mosquitoes  buzzed  about, 
even  in  the  heat  of  the  fire,  as  she  made  the  supper,  which 
she  had  planned  to  be  her  last,  because  she  could  bear  no 
more.  Tim  might  return,  or  he  might  not.  She  couldn't 
wait. 

The  children  were  talking  about  her,  near  at  hand.  "Oh, 
maw's  too  mean  fur  any  use.  -Paw  says  so,"  said  the  girl. 

Her  mother  put  down  the  frying  pans  and  unrolled  her 
sleeves.  So,  even  the  children  hated  her.  This  was  the 
end.  Stealthily  she  left  them,  sneaking  cautiously  up  the 
mountain  trail,  into  the  deepening  gloom,  of  the  pines. 
From  the  fire  below  the  odor  of  burning  food  was  carried 
on  the  wind  to  her.  "Let  'em  rustle  fur  'emselves,"  she 
thought,  grimly.  "I'm  through  with  the  hull  outfit."  Toil- 
ing upward,  she  reached  a  spring,  where  she  drank.  "It's 
right  pretty  here,"  she  remarked,  looking  around.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  ever  felt  the  mountain  charm.  She 
got  out  the  revolver  she  had  brought  along,  with  which  to 
shoot  herself,  then  paused  a  moment,  closing  her  eyes. 
The  gun  fell  into  the  spring  with  a  splash  ten  minutes 
aftenvard,  but  she,  leaning  against  a  log,  slept  quietly 

while  night  came  on. 

*         *         * 

"Flora !     Flora  !     God,  she  can't  a'  dumb  this  high  !"     It 

325 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILLS. 

was  Tim's  voice,  holding  a  note  of  agony,  and  she  awoke 
to  find  the  sun  shining  upon  the  spring  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. Shivering,  she  shrank  close  to  the  log. 

"Over  this  way,  pard — don't  give  up  yet !"  said  another 
voice,  eagerly.  "We'll  find  her." 

And  then  Tim  and  another  man  came  up  the  trail  and 
found  her. 

"Go  'way !  I'm  a-goin'  to  die  in  peace !"  she  shrieked, 
rousing  fully. 

But  Tim  gathered  the  thin  body  close  to  his  heart  and 
he  was  crying  brokenly :  "My  ol'  gal !  My  ol'  woman !" 
he  sobbed.  "I  got  to  camp  last  night  an'  found  you  gone. 
I  been  bad,  but  I  didn't  mean  it.  Here's  the  Swede  come 
back  with  money  from  the  claims  we  was  pards  on  an' 
we're  all  a-goin'  out  to  the  town  an'  start  over.  They's  a 
medicine  man  a-waitin'  an' — an'  I  got  your  cayuse  down 
below  to  ride  to  camp  on.  Things  is  goin'  to  be  different 
now.  Ain't  you  got  a  kiss  for  the  ol'  man  ?" 

His  wife's  face  twitched.  "Honest,  do  yuh  want  me  ?" 
she  quavered. 

"You  bet  your  life!"  said  Tim,  "an'  you're  a-goin'  to 
live  like  a  lady !" 


The  Troubles  of  Two  Working 
Girls. 

SCENE:  the  telephone  switchboard  in  the  lobby  of  the  Broadway  hotel. 

CHARACTERS:  AnnabeUe,  the  Telephone  Girl,  and  Myrtle,  "in  the 
business." 

MYRTLE — Why,  where's  yer  joolry,  dear?  Yuh 
ain't  went  and  soaked  that  big  ring,  have  yuh? 

ANNABELLE  (tearfully)— Oh,  don't  talk;  ain't 
yuh  heard?  I  dunno  ef  I'm  afoot  or  hossback!  Here, 
Mickey,  the  head  barkeep's  a  robber,  an'  it's  all  over 
the  Tenderloin  that  he  blew  it  all  on  me,  an'  yunno, 
Myrtle,  how  much  he  spent  on  ME! 

MYRTLE  (exhibiting  lively  signs  of  curiosity) — 
For  gracious  sakes,  whadda  yuh  mean  ?  Has  he  lammed 
with  the  bankroll? 

ANNABELLE — Him  an'  a  shine  friend,  my  dear. 
They  didn't  overlook  no  bets,  an'  just  went  down  the 
line,  coppin'  what  the  guests  paid  fur  bills  an'  swipin' 
the  bar  receipts.  Oh,  it's  dretful.  Here  they  ain't  a 
gell  along  Broadway  had  a  better  reppitation  than  me, 
an'  now  it's  ruint!  Here's  what  makes  me  sore,  yuh 
see.  The  very  day  before  the  pinch  come  off,  didn't 
he  ast  me  fur  the  loan  of  the  diamond  an'  emerald 
ring  he  gimme,  so's  tuh  make  a  flash  before  his  uncle 
from  Ireland  who's  got  money! 

MYRTLE  (indignantly) — He  oughta  be  ashamed, 
the  beast!  Say,  listen!  How  much'd  he  git  away  with? 

ANNABELLE— Why,  the  boss  says  him  an'  the 
shine  friend  sunk  their  hooks  intuh  ten  thousand !  An* 

327 


TROUBLES  OF  TWO  WORKING  GIRLS 

all  he  spent  round  town  fur  me,  fittin'  up  th'  flat  an' 
all  that,  'cause  a  'course  I  expected  tuh  marry  him 
when  he  was  buyin'  the  stuff — when  it  was  paid  fur 
I  changed  my  mind,  'cause  a  gell's  gotta  right  tuh 
pause  on  the  brink  ef  she  wants  tuh — wudn't  be 
more'n  three  thousand. 

MYRTLE  (suspiciously) — What'd  he  do  with  the 
rest?  Yuh  can't  tell  me  they  ain't  some  hussy  mixed 
up  in  it.  I  think  he's  a  very  ungent'manly  pusson 
not  tuh  at  least  hand  yuh  some  coin,  an'  him  with  that 
roll.  But  where's  the  other  diamonds  he  give  yuh? 

ANNABELLE — Mam's  got  'em  sowed  inside  her 
corset.  Yunno  maw's  no  lobster,  an'  she  gimme  the 
office  that  somma  these  fresh  flatties  might  try  tuh 
shake  me  down  fur  'em,  'cause  the  boss  is  hollerin' 
'bout  what  Mickey  done  with  the  money.  I  wudn't 
never  talk  tuh  him  again  even  ef  he  gits  out.  I  ain't 
goin'  tuh  associate  with  a  fella  who'd  rob  his  trustin' 
employer,  even  ef  the  boss  is  a  district  leader  an'  kin 
git  plenty  more.  I  got  some  respect  fur  myself,  an' 
yuh  bettcha  life  a  poor  workin'  gell's  gotta  be  care- 
ful. Still,  ef  it  comes  out  in  the  papers,  mebbe  I'd 
gitta  chanct  tuh  go  intuh  vodeville. 

MYRTLE— Don't  yuh  give  up  the  stuff,  Annabelle ! 
We  gotta  do  the  best  we  kin'  an'  it'd  be  just  like  that 
fella  tuh  send  up  an'  ast  yuh  tuh  let  'em  go — he  wudn't 
care  ef  yuh  didn't  have  a  ring  tuh  yer  name ! 

ANNABELLE— Lemme  'lone  fur  that,  dear!  I 
wudn't  give  him  a  pleasant  look.  I  ain't  up  agin  it  hard 
enough,  so  this  Central  has  tuh  git  gay  an'  rag  me  'bout 
it.  Icud  cry,  I'm  so  mad!  Hello — hello!  Yunno,  Myrtle, 
I  b'lieve  she  keeps  ringin'  me  a  purpuss,  an' — well. 
HELLO!  Who?  Spell  it,  I  can't  hear  yuh.  Am  I  the 
yella-hraded  thing  what's  brung  poor  Mickey  tuh  a  prison 
cell  ?  Say,  lookahere !  I'll  have  yuh  tuck  tuh  one,  too,  f 
I  ketch  yuh !  What  ?  How  dare  yuh !  I  don't  care 
who  you  are — oh,  Myrtle,  d'wuh  hear  Tier? — hello! 
WHO  are  yuh?  Git  offa  that  wire  or  I'll  do  sumpin' 

328 


TROUBLES  OF  TWO  WORKING  GIRLS 

yuh  put  a  bet  on  that!  Covered  me  with  di'monds? 
He  done  no  sucha  thing!  Yer  feared  tuh  come 
an'  say  that  tuh  my  face !  Hello,  go  to  the — oh,  excuse 
ME,  mister;  rully,  I  didn't  see  yuh;  number?  Yes, 
I'll  git  it — what?  Oh,  just  a  crazy  party  makin'  a 
roar — hello!  shut  up! — no,  I  did  NOT  tell  yuh  tuh 
shut  up,  Central,  I  wanta  number!  Hello!  Say,  GIT 
offa  that  wire.  Central,  I  want  yuh  tuh  listen  tuh  me, 
or  I'll  git  on  my  hat  an'  come  down  there  an1  hand 
yuh  a  slam  in  the  lamp  that'll  last  yuh!  Hello?  No, 
this  ain't  Commissioner  Lantry's  office;  I  dunno,  but 
I  s'pose  he's  at  the  track.  Hello,  Central,  ARE  yuh 
goin'  tuh  git  that  10,000  John?  I'll  report  yuh,  see  ef 
I  don't.  Gimme  the  manager,  miss;  d'yuh  hear?  One 
minnit,  mister,  I'll  git  it — hello!  is  that  you,  Frank? 
At  home,  sick?  Well,  let  it  go  then.  Now,  I  see 
why  yuh're  so  funny,  Central,  but  WAIT  till  my  fren' 
the  manager's  down  tuhmorra,  oh !  yuh  did  git  it  at 
last?  There  yuh  are — Number  4.  Gosh!  Hello!  Yes, 
4-11-44;  it  cert'nly  is.  No,  I  don't  want  tuh  make  no 
statement  tuh  the  Evenin'  Squirt,  nor  no  paper;  I  don't 
like  reporters,  an'  I  got  nothin'  tuh  say;  so  there! 
Well — oh,  I  did  know  the  fella,  fur  that  matter;  but 
it's  of  no  int'rest  tuh  me  at  all,  not  at  ALL;  see? 
Will  my  name  be  in  the  headin'?  In  those  big  red 
letters?  Well,  that's  different.  Yuh'll  come  up?  Sav, 
listen!  Do  yuh  want  a  pictur'  of  me  an'  him,  tuck  at 
Coney  Island?  Then  I  got  somma  me  alone  over  tuh 
the  flat.  Will  yuh  say  I'm  good  lookin'  an'  modest? 
all  right;  I'll  be  here,  then,  an'  I'll  have  the  picture. 
But  don't  let  on  I  told  vuh,  an'  say  the  way  he  deceived 
me  was  shameful.  Goo'bye. 
(Curtain.) 


J.  Wallace  Barrington's  Troupe 
Leave  a  Board  Bill. 

THE  buck  dancer  timidly  approached  Mrs.  de  Shine, 
the  landlady.  "I  want  to  ast  you  sumpin',"  he  said  un- 
easily. "You  see,  we  ain't  worked  fur  two  weeks,  but 
we  open  at  Feeney's,  Brooklyn,  to-morrow,  an'  three 
weeks  on  the  Poli  circuit  to  foller" 

The  landlady  interrupted  him.  "You  boys  kin  stick, 
but  ef  yuh  don't  settle  next  Satiddy,  don't  yuh  never  play 
Noo  York  again !"  she  exclaimed  warningly.  "Yuh  been 
stallin'  fur  two  weeks  now.  But  the  house  ain't  full,  so 
I'll  take  a  chanct  on  yuh  this  trip." 

The  buck  dancer,  relieved,  hastened  to  leave  before 
she  could  regret  her  decision.  It  was  Sunday  morning, 
a  time  of  peace  in  most  households.  In  the  actors'  board- 
ing house  departing  guests  clattered  down  the  stairs, 
while  fresh  arrivals  just  off  the  road  shouted  greetings 
to  their  friends,  dickered  with  perspiring  baggagemen, 
who  lugged  in  trunks  and  tramped  heavily  up  and  down. 

Those  who  went  away  must  settle  their  indebtedness 
first,  and  Mrs.  de  Shine  stood  guard  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  reminding  the  tardy  ones  that  they  mustn't  over- 
look a  bet.  She  stowed  the  bills  safely  in  her  capacious 
stocking,  digging  up  change  when  necessary  from  the 
same  storage  place. 

"Hello,  Maggie,  old  gal !"  said  John  Fanchester,  the 
burlesque  manager,  whose  shows  play  the  "Eastern 
Wheel,"  and  who,  with  Dora  Kittredge  Fanchester,  his 
wife,  leading  lady  of  the  "Broadway  Heiresses,"  always 
stopped  with  his  old  friend  when  he  came  to  town. 

"Lookin*   younger'n    ever!"    he    continued,    gallantly, 

330 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

shaking  Mrs.  de  Shine's  pudgy  and  rather  soiled  hand. 
"Ain't  she,  kid  ?" 

The  statuesque  Mrs.  Fanchester  laughed  shrilly.  "Give 
us  yer  mitt,  Mag,"  said  she,  cordially.  "Gee,  if  I  ain't 
wore  out !  Week  stands  in  them  tank  towns  in  the  Penn- 
sylvany  oil  district  is  sumpin'  dretful !  I  ain't  had  my 
hair  did  proper  in  a  month !  I  hope  yuh  got  our  letter, 
and  kep'  them  rooms." 

"Susy!"  called  the  landlady.  The  sloppy-looking  sla- 
vey responded  from  above. 

"What  ?"  she  replied,  from  the  third  floor. 

"The  Fanchesters  is  comin'  up !  Unlock  that  door  tub 
the  fust  floor  front!"  yelled  Mrs.  de  Shine.  "An'  gitta 
move  on !  I  never  see  such  a  gell !  Git  that  guy  in  32 
out,  too !  The  Josh  Sisters  has  tuck  it !  D'yuh  hear  me  ?" 

"Yessum !"  Susy  was  heard  coming  down  from  the 
third  to  the  first  floor,  so  the  Fanchesters  gathered  up 
their  grips,  and  jesting  merrily  with  Biff  &  Fall,  the 
acrobatic  comedians,  who  had  just  entered  the  front  hall, 
ascended  to  their  apartment. 

"Mis'  de  Shine!"  called  a  lady  in  a  red  kimono,  leaning 
over  the  upper  railing,  "Susy  ain't  give  us  but  one  towel !" 

The  landlady  was  rebuking  an  odorous  expressman  who 
had  carelessly  bumped  a  trunk  into  the  aged  hatrack, 
already  wounded  in  many  quarters. 

"Yuh  guys  just  pay  a  little  attention,  sec?"  she  ob- 
served, angrily.  "Smashin'  up  my  hall !  Ef  yuh  hit  them 
banisters  goin'  up  I'll  make  you  wisht  you  hadn't !"  The 
man  promptly  let  the  trunk  slide  to  the  floor.  "Take  it 
up  yerself,  then!"  he  replied,  haughtily.  "I  been  paid!" 
Whereupon  he  rushed  out  of  the  door.  The  complaining 
guest  spoke  again.  "Me  an'  Birdie  wants  'nother  towel !" 
she  shrieked. 

Mrs.  de  Shine  gazed  upward  sternly.  "Yuh  kin  git  it 
when  yuh  use  the  one  yuh  got,"  she  answered,  calmly. 
"Yuh  gells  was  here  last  season,  an'  copped  four  fur 
make-up  towels !  Its  yer  own  fault,  Sadie !" 

Muttering  mutinously,  Sadie  disappeared.  She  couldn't 
make  a  very  biting  retort,  because  the  charge  was  true. 

331 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL, 

Mrs.  de  Shine's  memory  was  the  wonder  of  the  profes- 
sion. 

"What  we  goin'  tuh  have  fur  dinner?"  Clad  in  a 
dressing  sacque  and  a  blue  petticoat,  Mamie  Slambrook, 
of  Slambrook,  Burke  &  Slambrook,  the  big  scream  on  so 
many  bills,  peered  forth  from  the  front  parlor.  Mamie 
was  an  old-timer,  and  on  most  familiar  terms. 

"Stoo  an'  chicking,"  replied  Mrs.  de  Shine.  "Yuh 
ain't  got  no  idee  the  price  of  meat  now,  either,  my  dear !" 

"Is  they  puddin'?"  pursued  Mamie,  interestedly.  "I'm 
that  sick  of  pie.  I'd  relish  a  hum-made  puddin',  but  not 
bread — I  hate  them  kind." 

"I  got  a  perf'ly  elegant  plum  puddin',"  said  Mrs.  de 
Shine,  enjoying  the  impression  the  remark  so  plainly 
made  upon  Mamie.  "I  set  a  good  table,  ef  I  do  say  it 
myself.  They  ain't  nobuddy  kin  say  Maggie  de  Shine 
ain't  there  with  the  goods.  Say,  ain't  you  changed  yer 
hair?  I  ain't  seed  yuh  folks  since  yuh  went  on  the  Poli 
circuit." 

"Oh,  my  heavings,  yes !"  Mamie's  rippling  laugh  was 
as  soothing  to  ears  polite  as  the  gentle  kiss  of  the  saw  as 
it  strikes  a  knot  in  the  obstinate  hickory  log.  "I  got  so 
blamed  sick  of  bein'  a  blonde,  an'  so  many  shines  is  get- 
tin'  theirs  made  yella,  that  I  just  had  mine  colored  back," 
she  said.  "Ain't  it  swell?  I  set  three  hull  hours  gettin' 
it  done,  too.  It's  suttenly  an  ordeal." 

"Well,  but  they's  an  awful  satisfaction  in  bein'  framed 
up  right,"  declared  Mrs.  de  Shine.  "I  was  expectin'  a 
hull  gang  this  mornin',  an'  they  ain't  here."  As  she  fin- 
ished speaking  the  bell  rang.  Mamie  modestly  closed  her 
door,  with  a  final  flirt  of  her  blue  silk  ruffles. 

The  landlady  flung  wide  the  portals,  expectant  of  a 
guest.  Her  gaze  fell  upon  a  handsome  black-mustached 
gentleman,  in  a  full-collared  and  cuffed  overcoat,  and  a 
top  hat.  She  rapidly  speculated  as  to  whether  he  might 
be  a  faro  bank  dealer  or  a  melodrama  manager.  His 
make-up  would  do  for  either. 

"Ah,  madam,  this,  I  believe,  is  umpty-umph  Irving 
place?"  he  inquired,  politely.  "I  might  have  recognized 

332 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

your  smiling  features  from  my  dear,  Al  Reeves' 
description.  We  desire  accommodations." 

"\Yell,  any  fren'  of  my  fren'  Al  is  suttenly  welcome," 
smiled  Mrs.  de  Shine.  The  smile  grew  as  she  noted  the 
sparkling  diamond  in  his  tie  and  the  flashing  ring  on  the 
hand  which,  accidentally,  of  course,  rested  carelessly  upon 
the  hatrack,  where  the  light  made  the  jewelry  gleam  de- 
lightfully. 

He  explained  pleasantly  that  the  "Only  a  Motorman's 
Daughter"  company,  of  which  he  was  manager,  were  just 
in  from  the  road,  after  a  long,  hard  season.  They  wished 
the  very  best  of  board  and  lodging,  now  that  they  were 
again  in  dear  old  New  York.  "Miss  Idalene  de  Bourbon, 
our  leading  lady,  must  have  her  private  bath,  and  if  you 
have  a  nice  little  suite  for  me,  it  will  do  nicely.  I  like  my 
comforts,"  said  the  manager. 

"Well,  lemme  see,  now.  How  many  is  they?"  she 
queried.  There  were  twelve.  This  was  like  finding 
money.  And  as  the  manager  looked  so  prosperous,  and 
was  so  amiable,  the  crafty  Mrs.  de  Shine  boosted  the  price 
a  couple  of  dollars  on  each  room.  After  briefly  consider- 
ing the  terms,  Mr.  J.  Wallace  Barrington  agreed  to  them. 

He  opened  the  door,  beckoned  a  group  of  ladies  and 
gentleman  who  stood  awaiting  his  call  outside,  and  the 
"Only  aMotorman's  Daughter"  company  trooped  in.  Miss 
de  Bourbon  demanded  that  she  be  instantly  shown  to  her 
"rooms."  As  one  room  was  considered  sufficient  by  or- 
dinary boarders,  this  made  a  hit.  Mrs.  de  Shine  flew  up- 
stairs, burst  upon  the  Johnny  Fanchesters,  and  requested 
that  they  move. 

"I'll  switch  yuh  folks  tuh  'leven,  see  ?"  she  began,  viva- 
ciously, "An'  that'll  give  Miss  de  Bourbon  this'n  an'  the 
back,  an'  the  bath's  next.  'Leven's  just  as  good  a  room, 
Johnny." 

"But  we're  all  fixed  here,"  grumbled  Dora  Kittredge 
Fanchester,  who  was  washing  out  a  week's  accumulation 
of  stockings  in  the  bowl.  The  Fanchesters  moved,  and 
they  privately  decided  that  if  they  had  to  be  thrown  down 
for  a  new  bunch  it  was  a  shabby  trick. 

333 


BARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

"I  heard  that  guy  in  the  plug  hat  shootin'  the  con,  see  ?" 
volunteered  Alicia  Smathers,  of  Hodge  &  Smathers,  the 
"refined  comedy  duor"  "an'  I'll  bet  all  I  got  in  my  sock 
he's  a  false  alarm !  The  idee  of  me  an'  Stella  bein'  put 
out  of  the  third  floor  front,  an'  put  in  a  teenchy  room  on 
the  air  shaft,  so  two  them  dramer  dames  kin  git  a  room 
with  sunlight!  It's  my  last  time  here.  I  kin  go  where 
they  make  a  fuss  over  me,  I  kin." 

Airs,  de  Shine  was  pleasantly  excited.  She  switched 
the  College  Boys'  Quartette  into  a  room  with  no  heat,  and 
Vivienne  Desmond,  the  Parisian  Chanteuse  (from  North 
Clark  street)  into  a  gloomy  den  on  the  top  floor,  when 
Vivienne  had  been  cosily  ensconced  in  a  first  floor  room 
adjoining  the  bath! 

By  dinner  time  the  regular  boarders  were  in  revolt. 

"It's  the  first  time  I  ain't  set  at  that  fust  table  in  four 
years,"  growled  the  Property  Man."  "An'  here  I  got  to 
stall  around  in  this  hall  and  wait  for  a  gang  of  dubs  to 
git  through  feedin'."  The  hall  was  filled  with  hungry 
persons.  Through  the  half-closed  door  of  the  dining 
room  they  could  see  the  melodrama  people,  merrily  and 
earnestly  assaulting  the  delicacies  of  the  Sunday  meal, 
and  everybody  knows  the  first  helpings  are  the  best. 

Mrs.  de  Shine  personally  waited  upon  the  charming 
manager,  who,  having  shed  his  imposing  overcoat,  dis- 
played a  smart  check  suit,  with  which  a  red  tie  contrasted 
prettily. 

"Did  you  see  their  trunks  goin'  up?"  asked  Vivienne, 
as  she  carefully  cached  her  gum  under  the  stair  rail,  to  be 
recovered  later.  "The  hull  mob  had  them  big  Naylors. 
I  must  say  fur  a  bum  thriller,  they're  awful  stuck  up." 

Harry  Pounder,  the  pianist,  was  reading  the  Sunday 
paper.  "They  ain't  in  the  route  list,"  he  announced.  "I 
think  they're  a  lot  of  dubs.  I  never  heard  of  an  Idalene 
de  Bourbon,  an'  I  been  in  the  show  business  a  long  time." 

"I  knewed  a  gell  named  Birdie  de  Bourbon,  but  she's 
in  burlesque,"  remarked  Dora  Fanchester.  "We  ain't 
comin'  here  no  more,  not  an'  git  the  hooks  throwed  into 
us  in  this  way." 

334 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

Gorged  completely,  the  dramatic  company  at  last 
emerged.  Miss  de  Bourbon  paused.  "Before  I  forget 
it,"  she  said,  "us  ladies  has  a  fad  fur  doing  up  our  own 
rooms.  So  the  gell  can  just  bring  round  the  towels,  an' 
we'll  do  the  rest.  I  s'pose  you  change  the  sheets  twict  a 
day?" 

Mrs.  de  Shine  gasped,  but  she  was  game.  "Well,  I — 
we  kin,  I  guess,  dear,"  said  she.  "Suttenly.  I  want  yuh 
tuh  all  feel  like  yuh  was  in  yer  own  home  here.  Go  as 
fur  as  yuh  like.  I  was  onct  in  the  business  myself;  of 
course  that  was  some  time  ago.  Do  yuh  ladies  like  dawgs  ? 
'Cause  I'll  let  yuh  have  Fido  fur  a  while." 

The  soubrette,  the  ingenue  and  light  comedy  leads  broke 
into  little  joyous  cries  of  appreciation  over  Fido,  the  poo- 
dle, who  leaped  upon  them,  yelping  in  his  usual  cheerful 
fashion.  The  soubrette  kissed  Fido. 

"The  Motorman's  Daughter"  troupe  might  have  had  the 
house,  after  that. 

"  'Es  a  booful  baby,  'ess  'e  is !"  cooed  Miss  de  Bourbon, 
tenderly,  as  the  new  boarders  bore  the  squealing,  scratch- 
ing Fido  upstairs. 

"They're  a  grand  lot  of  folks,"  remarked  Mrs.  de  Shine. 
"Not  like  some  the  people  what  abuses  a  pore  little  harm- 
less dawg.  The  man  what'll  kick  my  Fido  is  capable  of 
eatin'  a  child !" 

The  Property  Man  flushed  darkly.  Several  snickers 
came  from  various  quarters.  "Then  keep  him  outer  my 
room !"  he  burst  out,  to  hide  his  embarrassment.  "A  fel- 
ler can't  leave  nothin'  on  his  bed  without  that  mutt  chaw- 
in'  it  up !  Life's  gettin'  to  be  a  hell  in  this  house.  I've 
been  played  for  a  come-on  onct  to-day,  an'  kep'  waitin' 
fur  my  chuck,  an'  me  with  a  concert  to-day,  an'  you 
know  it!" 

The  boss  regarded  him  coldly.  "Mista  Johnson,  yuh've 
et  my  food  an'  been  treated  like  one  of  the  family  fur 
Heaving  knows  how  long!"  she  exclaimed,  with  ill-sup- 
pressed passion.  "But  them  crool  words  is  the  limit! 
Leave  this  house,  when  yuh  get  yer  trunk  packed !  Yuh 

335 


BARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

won't  have  tub  do  more'n  tie  up  yer  collars  an'  a  extry 
shirt  !r> 

"Hully  gee!  listen  at  her!"  whispered  the  tenor  of  the 
College  Boys'  Quartette.  "That  old  gal  kin  go  some  in 
a  mix-up,  too.  I  seen  her  an'  a  couple  dames  who  tries 
to  hand  her  the  rinky-dink  go  to  the  floor,  an'  Maggie 
beat  'em  up  scand'lous." 

The  Property  Man  arose.  Never  before  had  a  bluff  of 
his  landlady's  failed  to  subdue  him. 

"Then,  it's  bright  eyes,  good-by,"  he  shouted.  "I  give 
you  two  weeks'  board  last  night.  Jar  loose  from  six 
bucks,  an'  it's  twenty  minutes  fur  a  new  book.  Lemme 
out  an'  keep  your  pup  away  from  me,  or  you'll  sure  be 
shy  a  poodle !  Gimme  my  six  !" 

Mrs.  de  Shine  burst  into  tears  at  his  harsh  language. 
"Oh,  Bill,  dontchu  go!"  she  sobbed.  "Yuh  know  yuhself 
I  ain't  myself  on  a  Sunday,  with  bein'  upset  an'  me  not 
strong,  neither !  I  take  back  all  I  said,  honest,  I  do.  Now, 
do  set  down  an'  eat  yer  puddin'.  Here's  Susy  went  an' 
brung  yuh  a  extry  big  dish.  Git'im  a  cuppa  cawfee,  too, 
Susy.  Won't  yuh  stick  fur  the  big  show?" 

But  the  worm  had  turned.  "Nope,  I  won't !"  answered 
the  Property  Man,  bitterly.  "It's  twenty-three  fur  mine !" 

Mrs.  de  Shine  ceased  to  weep.  "Let  the  bets  go  as 
they  lay,  then,"  said  she,  with  dignity.  "Here's  yer  old 
six.  Now,  go  out  an'  knock  my  house.  I  don't  care.  I 
kin  git  along." 

The  juggler  took  the  Property  Man's  vacant  chair  in 
silence,  and  Vivienne  coonfully  swiped  the  pudding  which 
he  had  scorned.  The  heavy  man  of  the  dramatic  com- 
pany looked  in.  "S'cuse  me;  where's  the  bath  on  the 
fourth  floor  ?"  he  inquired. 

Mrs.  de  Shine,  aroused  from  painful  reflection,  as- 
sumed her  best  smile.  "Just  acrost  the  hall  from  yuh  an' 
yer  wife,"  she  said.  "An'  yuh  kin  allus  git  in.  A'  course, 
I  don't  furnish  no  soap,  but  they's  most  allus  some  hot 
water,  ef  summon  ain't  used  it  all,  that  is." 

The  Property  Man  could  go.  She  had  twelve  new 
boarders,  paying  a  fat  price,  and  if  he  wanted  to  be  mean, 

336 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

he  could.     But  she'd  miss  him,  at  that — the  oldest  board- 
er of  all.     t 

*         *         * 

By  the  dinner  hour  on  Tuesday  night  the  sway  of  vau- 
deville in  the  actors'  boarding  house  had  given  place  to 
the  reign  of  drama.  Determined  vaudevillians  massed  in 
the  hall  a  half  hour  before  the  bell  rang.  Forming  in  a 
solid  phalanx,  the  "Only  a  Motorman's  Daughter"  com- 
pany would  charge  into  the  ranks  of  variety,  intent  upon 
reaching  the  table  first. 

Johnny  Fanchester  led  the  burlesquers,  who  naturally 
cast  their  lot  with  the  vaudevillians,  and  Idalene  de  Bour- 
bon, her  near-diamond  alligator  waggling  defiantly  in  her 
pale  locks,  held  fast  to  the  strong  arm  of  the  gallant  J. 
Wallace  Barrington,  as  he  boastfully  bade  his  troupe  fol- 
low, even  to  death. 

The  tenor  of  the  "College  Boys,"  smitten  with  love  for 
the  troupe's  ingenue — who,  while  lovely  to  the  eye,  was 
considerably  over  seven — had  shamelessly  deserted  his 
partners,  and  now  fed  with  the  "legits."  The  result  of 
these  far  from  friendly  battles  was  that  several  members 
of  each  faction  landed  at  the  table  together.. 

Mrs.  de  Shine  was  captivated  by  J.  Wallace.  So  much 
so  that  by  Thursday  noon  he  succeeded  in  making  a  hurry- 
up  touch  for  fifty,  just  until  he  received  his  percentage 
on  Saturday  night.  Dora  Fanchester  was  "resting"  this 
week,  after  an  arduous  season,  and  she  appeared  one  night 
in  a  homelike  negligee,  a  gorgeous  pink  kimono  gener- 
ously scattered  with  yellow  flowers. 

She  addresed  the  boss  after  the  soup  had  been  ab- 
sorbed. "Fur  three  days  we  ain't  been  able  tuh  get  intuh 
the  bath,"  she  said.  "An'  me'n  Mr.  Fanchester's  sick  an' 
tired  of  it !  That  big-  battleaxe  of  that  bum  trick  what's 
playin'  some  dump  nobuddy  ever  heard  of  has  got  the 
key !  We  want  our  rights !" 

"Good  fur  you,  Dora !  Hip  !  hip !  hurray !"  yelled  the 
three  loyal  College  Boys'  Quartetters.  "We  was  made 
to  stop  singin'  at  I  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  because  some 
slob  can't  study  his  part  less  it's  quiet!  Give  it  to  her!" 

337 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

"Mebbe,"  went  on  Dora,  waving  her  richly  jeweled 
hand,  "plain  folks  who  owns  six  or  eight  burlesques  ain't 
high-class  enough  fur  yer  noo  frens,  Mis'  de  Shine !" 

Miss  de  Bourbon  spoke  rapidly  in  the  landlady's  ear, 
then  got  out  of  reach.  Dora  had  a  menacing  air  about 
her. 

"Call  yerself  a  lady,  an'  use  such  unbecomin'  lang- 
witch!"  cried  Mrs.  de  Shine.  "Miss  de  Bourbon  says 
she  ain't  goin'  tuh  be  insulted,  an'  I'm  fur  her!  I  must 
ast  yuh  tuh  beg  her  parding !" 

"Put  'em  out !"  urged  J.  Wallace,  in  a  low  tone.  "They 
ain't  refined." 

Dora,  red-faced  and  very  mad,  wrapped  her  gay  raiment 
about  her  svelte  form.  Then  she  mounted  her  chair, 
stepped  upon  the  table,  creating  havoc  among  the  mashed 
potatoes,  prunes  and  mounds  of  pickled  beets,  and,  grasp- 
ing the  water  pitcher,  she  hurled  it  at  Miss  de  Bourbon. 
The  latter,  shrieking  wildly,  ducked  her  fair  head  and 
joined  Fido,  who  yelped  in  anguish  under  the  table,  some 
brutal  enemy  having  dealt  him  a  rude  kick. 

A  general  rough  house  followed.  It  spread  to  the  hall, 
where  four  sketch  teams,  three  acrobats,  a  hoop  roller 
and  eight  regular  actors  who  had  been  invited  to  dinner 
by  J.  Wallace  joined  in  the  fray.  Two  fat  policemen 
came  hustling  up  from  Fourteenth  street,  and  every  one 
called  every  one  else  a  disgrace  to  the  show  business. 
Many  a  blackened  eye  was  skilfully  painted  for  the  night's 
performance. 

Led  by  Dora,  in  a  sealskin  coat  and  all  her  diamonds, 
battered,  but  still  active,  the  burlesquers  and  vaudevillians 
brought  down  their  own  luggage,  paid  what  they  owed, 
and  proceeded  in  a  body  down  Fourteenth  street  to  an- 
other boarding  house. 

Mrs.  de  Shine,  given  her  choice,  had  stuck  to  her  new 
friends.  She  was  under  the  spell  of  the  fascinating  J. 
Wallace,  and  to  cinch  it,  he  borrowed  fifty  more.  He  said 
the  show  was  going  great.  Packed  at  every  performance, 
and  looked  back  at  the  same  house  again  in  two  weeks, 

338 


BARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

certainly  a  remarkable  record.     She  decided  to  cater  in 
future  only  to  the  drama,  leaving  vaudeville  alone. 
*         *         * 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  lonely  in  the  Maison  de 
Shine,  with  no  jovial  show  folks  chasing  in  and  out,  play- 
ing the  piano  in  the  parlor  and  cutting  up  in  the  halls. 
The  landlady  told  Susy  she  didn't  care,  and  that  she  al- 
ways had  liked  a  quiet  life,  anyway. 

Mornings,  teams  and  singles  called  to  get  their  mail, 
but  never  a  gag  did  they  get  off,  as  in  the  old  days.  These 
days  were  but  a  few  hours  back,  and  yet  it  seemed  a  year. 
After  dinner  on  Saturday  several  members  of  the  dra- 
matic company,  for  whose  sake  Mrs.  de  Shine  had  broken 
up  a  happy  home,  were  late. 

And  when  they  arrived  those  who  had  eaten  seemed 
to  have  important  business  upstairs.  As  they  went  up 
they  nudged  each  other,  and  chuckled  gaily. 

In  five  minutes  a  procession,  each  person  bearing  a 
heavy  suit  case,  tiptoed  down  the  stairs,  and  out  of  the 
front  door.  J.  Wallace  and  Miss  de  Bourbon  went  ahead, 
stifling  their  merriment.  At  the  corner  they  relieved  a 
man  of  the  care  of  five  suit  cases  like  the  ones  they  carried 
which  he  had  been  watching. 

A  little  later  the  remaining  five  troupers  joined  the 
party,  took  up  their  grips,  and  set  sail  for  the  Subway 
entrance,  J.  Wallace  ahead.  What  did  it  mean? 

At  12  only  Mrs.  de  Shine,  Susy  and  the  cook,  who  was 
asleep,  occupied  the  big  house.  Sitting  anxiously  upon 
the  stairs,  the  landlady  watched  the  clock.  Where  were 
they?  The  boarders  were  to  have  settled  in  full  after 
their  show,  leaving  in  the  morning.  Filled  with  a  strange 
fear,  the  boss  went  up  to  their  rooms,  to  which  the  maid 
had  been  denied  entrance  by  the  industrious  ladies. 

There  wasn't  a  trunk  there!     She  had  been  "bunked"! 

Mrs.  de  Shine  gathered  up  the  faithful  Fido  and  slowly 
went  downstairs.  It  was  as  still  as  death.  She  wept  for- 
lornly into  Fido's  coat. 

"I  wisht  they'd  all  break  a  laig !"  she  wailed,  miserably. 

339 


HARRINGTONS  LEAVE  A  BOARD  BILL. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  Then  a  key  grated  in  the 
lock,  and  the  property  man  walked  in. 

"By  gosh  !"  he  exclaimed.  "Found  I  kep'  my  old  key ! 
Why— what's  up  ?" 

She  told  him  the  sad  tale.  "Well,  I  seen  a  gang  chasin' 
up  the  street  'bout  seven,  all  carryin'  them  soot  cases  those 
collapsible  trunks  fold  into,  but  I  didn't  think  nothin'," 
he  said,  thoughtfully.  "Well,  they  stung  you,  Mag. 
Guess  you  need  a  boarder  or  two,  don't  you  ?" 

"Mista  Johnson,  please  come  back !"  she  cried,  peni- 
tently. 

"Sure;  I  was  comin',  anyway,"  laughed  the  Property 
Man. 


When  the  Thunder  Mountain 
Mail   Came    In. 

IT  was  in  the  days  before  the  wagon  road — which  has 
since  crawled  around  the  Salmon  River  Mountains  and 
down  into  the  mudholes  that  lie  between  the  summits, 
following  the  old  Sheepeater  Indian  trails  to  the  gold 
camp  of  Roosevelt,  Idaho.  The  mail  came  in,  over 
thirty  feet  of  snow,  by  private  carrier.  Each  letter 
cost  the  anxious  prospector  who  waited  it  two  bits. 

But  he  was  sure  to  get  it,  for  Mose  Puckett  thought 
no  more  of  two  bits  than  of  his  good  right  eye.  He 
made  the  trip  from  Idaho  City  in  about  ten  days,  pack- 
ing the  mail  sack,  his  blankets  and  a  light  outfit  of  grub 
on  his  strong  old  back.  He  skidded  easily  forward  on 
his  snowshoes  where  the  crust  was  hard,  stubbornly 
forging  ahead  when  the  fresh  snow  impeded  progress. 
It  clogged  his  shoes  at  times  until  his  legs  ached  cruelly 
from  the  strain  of  lifting  his  feet  every  few  steps  to 
shake  off  the  wet  burden. 

If  a  sudden  heavy  storm  blew  up,  with  the  freezing 
wind  whipping  his  face  and  turning  his  sheep  dog  Sport 
into  a  weird  white  beast,  Mose  took  .out  his  small  axe, 
hastily  cut  spruce  boughs  and  made  himself  and  Sport 
a  wickiup,  where,  sheltered  somewhat,  he  snoozed  under 
his  blanket  and  little  tarpaulin,  thinking  of  nothing  in 
particular. 

It  was  an  open  Winter  "outside,"  although  the  hills 
held  great  drifts.  Mose  rode  from  Idaho  City  to  a  point 
near  the  town  of  Banner  on  Jim  Dodge's  bobsled,  and 
to  the  end  of  the  wagon  road  on  a  cayuse  to  which 

341 


THE  THUNDER  MOUNTAIN  MAIL. 

Dodge  staked  him.  He  left  his  mount  at  a  ranch  house 
for  Dodge  to  reclaim  later  and,  strapping  on  his  shoes, 
made  tracks  toward  McPherson's  Camp,  a  couple  of 
tents  which  marked  the  joining  of  the  Bear  and  Garden 
Valley  trails. 

McPherson  was  mighty  glad  to  see  Mose.  It  meant 
some  one  to  play  solo  with  before  bedtime,  so  he  set 
up  the  drinks  in  his  joy. 

"She's  awful  deep  in  Pen  Basin,  Mose,"  he  remarked 
as  they  ate  bacon  and  venison,  with  thick  slices  of  "sour 
dough"  bread,  the  work  of  McPherson's  hands.  "Ben 
Caswell  come  down  from  the  south  fork  o'  Monumental, 
an*  he  was  about  out.  Said  he  got  ketched  in  a  drift 
three  hull  days  an'  liked  tuh  never  git  loose. 

"I  been  awful  lucky  here,  though.  I'm  buildin'  a  big 
log  shack  fur  Summer,  'cause  the  rush  is  comin'  when 
the  trails  are  free,  sure  pop!  An'  I'm  packin'  in  every 
darned  thing  the  most  fasteedious  tenderfoot  kin  hanker 
fur!" 

"Who's  buildin'  it?"  asked  Mose,  stuffing  himself — 
he  wouldn't  eat  in  such  comfort  for  some  days  to  come. 
"I  ain't  seed  no  one  but  you  'round  here.  I  reckon  to 
beat  my  last  trip,  if  I  don't  stub  my  toe.  Got  the 
Chris'mus  mail,  an'  them  guys'll  be  crazy  fur  it.  I'm 
due  tuh  Marble  City  (a  camp),  an'  Mule  Creek  Cabin, 
an'  the  big  camp.  Sport's  carryin  twenty  pounds  of 
mail,  too.  Who'd  you  say  was  helpin'  you?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  had  young  Mills,  from  Placerville,  up 
here,  an'  he  gets  honin'  fur  comp'ny,  an'  when  Ben  come 
along  it's  puck-a-chee  fur  him,"  answered  McPherson 
sadly.  "I'd  give  three  a  day  tuh  a  good  axeman,  an' 
that's  some  money!" 

"Sure  is!'  observed  Mose  thoughtfully.  "Three  a 
day !" 

"Say,  look  a-here,  Mose!  Help  me  out,  can't  you? 
Them  fellers  dunno  but  what  the  treetops  is  covered  out 
here,  an'  a  week's  work's  twenty-one  bucks!  How 
about  it?" 

The  trusted  mail  man  arose,  lifted  the  mail  sack  and 
342 


THE  THUNDER  MOUNTAIN  MAIL. 

Sport's  little  pack  and  flung  them  under  McPherson's 
bunk. 

"I'll  doit!"  he  declared. 


The  shack  was  not  completed  and  yet  ten  days  had 
passed.  Sport,  in  the  cheerful  company  of  a  yellow  pup 
and  a  red  setter,  had  settled  to  a  comfortable  life  of 
ease,  while  Mose  and  McPherson  played  solo  and  crib- 
bage  nights,  in  daytime  searching  the  hillsides  for  just 
the  right  timber. 

This  they  felled  and  dragged  by  ropes  to  the  camp, 
while  Mose  also  displayed  his  skill  at  the  making  of 
"shakes,"  a  rude  form  of  hand-made  shingle.  The 
woodrats  gnawed  contentedly  at  the  leather  of  the  for- 
gotten mail  sacks,  and  a  chipmunk,  entering  the  tent 
raised  on  logs  by  some  secret  way,  labored  furiously 
until  finally  his  inquisitive  little  nose  poked  itself  into  the 
Christmas  mail  and  he  disappeared  inside  the  bag,  fol- 
lowed by  a  woodrat. 

Three  weeks — and  then  Mose  started  guiltily.  He 
must  not  tarry  beyond  the  next  dawn.  Hurriedly  he 
dug  out  the  sack,  got  together  his  outfit  and  made  ready. 

McPherson  told  him  not  to  worry,  so  he  didn't. 


From  their  camps  in  the  hills  the  prospectors  came, 
in  ones  and  twos,  down  to  Mule  Creek  Cabin  in  search 
of  the  mail. 

Injun  Billy  and  Tonopah  Smith,  from  way  over  on 
Profile,  got  in,  half  starved,  because  if  they  hadn't 
thrown  away  their  packs  they  couldn't  have  made  it. 
Yukon  Murphy  and  his  pard,  young  Haskill,  from  Colo- 
rado, and  Henry  Webber  and  "the  Colonel,"  all  met  at 
Jim  Cushing's  camp. 

Flour  was  twenty  dollars  a  hundred,  but  Jim  fed  'em 
as  if  he  had  a  million  bags  cached. 

"I'm  dyin'  to  hear  from  my  old  woman,"  said  Tono- 

343 


THE  THUNDER  MOUNTAIN  MAIL. 

pah ;  'told  her  to  sell  a  couple  lots  .out'n  Peory,  an'  I  bet 
you  she  got  a  good  price." 

"I'd  like  to  have  some  of  my  maw's  cookin',"  sighed 
Injun  Billy,  "but  I'll  get  a  letter.  That's  sumpin'." 

Henry  Webber  was  all  upset  for  fear  his  girl  had  gone 
back  on  him,  and  the  rest  were  fretful  to  a  high  degree. 

Ten  weeks  before  old  Mose  had  strapped  on  the  let- 
ters to  God's  country  and  hit  the  trail.  Could  he  be 
dead  buried  in  a  drift?  Many  a  dead  man  had  the  snow 
claimed. 

Injun  Billy  cried  over  it,  but  Yukon  Murphy  and  his 
pard  set  out  toward  Indian  Creek,  by  which  trail  the 
mail  man  would  come.  They  were  on  the  top  of  the  big 
summit — too  lately  seen  by  whites  to  have  a  name — 
when  they  spotted  Mose  and  Sport  toiling  upward,  Mose 
glancing  at  the  notches  in  the  treetops  which  marked  the 
trail.  Big  pines  appeared  small  bushes  now,  their  trunks 
buried  in  snow. 

Yukon  insisted  on  carrying  the  sack,  and  when 
Mose  had  told  a  dreadful  tale  of  hards-hips  endured, 
Yukon  privately  decided  to  make  the  gang  put  up  an 
extra  piece  .of  change  for  their  brave  carrier. 


"Ten  letters  fur  William  Prouty"  (Injun  Billy),  said 
Mose ;  "two  an'  a  half,  Bill." 

Bill  shelled  out  happily  even  before  the  bag  was 
opened. 

Mose  undid  the  thongs.  Out  fluttered  a  thousand 
bits  of  paper.  He  plunged  a  hand  inside,  drawing  out 
a  dozen  or  so  of  letters  still  intact.  The  chipmunk 
and  the  Woodrat  had  settled  the  mail.  All 
of  Injun  Billy's  ten  were  safe.  Feverishly,  while  hor- 
rid curses  from  homesick  goldhunters  rent  the  air,  he 
opened  them.  Six  copies  of  the  same  bill  for  a  Boise 
weekly,  and  four  advertisements  from  a  Chicago 
clothier  was  what  poor  Billy  drew. 

Again  Mose  repeated  the  story  of  his  terrible  trip. 
What  could  they  do?  A  woodrat  might  get  in  any- 

344 


THE  THUNDER  MOUNTAIN  MAIL. 

thing.     But  while  Mose  talked,  Sport  barked  mourn- 
fully, and  then  excitedly  at  him. 

"That  dawg's  tryin'  to  speak!"  declared  Tonopah. 

Later,  Mose  made  camp  for  himself  and  Sport. 

"It's  a  damn  good  thing  you  can't,"  said  he. 


Old  Peter. 

PETER  had  been  a  stage  doortender  for  thirty  years 
He  was  gray-haired,  but  still  strong  enough  to  repel 
boarders  in  the  shape  of  various  persons  who  wanted 
to  get  in  without  a  pass  from  the  front  of  the  hous2. 

Peter  lived  alone,  and  had  a  bit  of  money,  for  he 
drew  two  salaries.  The  owner  of  the  theatre  and  other 
property  owners  on  the  block  employed  him  as  night 
watchman  from  midnight,  when  the  show  was  over 
until  daylight. 

He  was  most  religious,  and  read  his  Bible  constantly. 
Vaudeville  performers  who  desired  information  as  to 
certain  rules  of  the  house,  found  Peter  reading  so 
busily  that  he  could  scarce  find  time  to  answer  a  query. 

All  his  life,  Peter  had  secretly  yearned  to  go  to 
work  in  the  early  morning,  returning  at  evening  to 
a  pleasant  time  of  rest.  Others  lived  in  the  day,  while 
he  must  hoe  his  row  in  darkness.  Sometimes  a  tear 
spattered  down  on  his  Bible  as  Peter  wished  and 
wished  with  all  his  might  to  just  be  able  to  go  to  bed 
at  say  10  of  the  clock  like  regular  folks.  He  would 
read  a  bit  and  comfortably  smoke,  with  his  woolen 
slippers  and  a  warm  quilt  about  his  old  legs  to  frighten 
off  the  aches  which  came  along  if  rain  was  in  the  air. 

He  was  so  sick  of  these  fresh  show  people,  with 
their  wearying  jokes  and  never  ceasing  gabble  about 
some  one  or  something.  Peter  grew  peevish  as  the 
years  went  by,  and  vaudeville  acts  changed  and  so  did 
stage  managers  and  "grips."  New  faces  among  the 
actors  appeared,  with  only  an  infrequent  visit  from 
the  old  guard,  who  said,  "Hullo,  Pete:  got  the  Bible 
yet?"  and  shook  his  hand. 

The   house   booked   the    new    acts,   European   and 

346 


OLD  PETER 

domestic,  to  keep  up  with  the  times.  Peter  hated 
them  all,  because  he  wanted  to  get  away,  out  in  the 
daylight,  instead  of  sleeping  through  it.  He  was  a 
little  feebler,  too,  so  the  manager  had  told  him  to 
stop  night  watchman's  duty,  and  go  home  to  his  bed. 
He  would  get  the  money  just  the  same,  because  when 
the  manager  had  hired  Peter  both  were  young,  and 
Peter  had  stuck  when  others  had  not.  The  manager 
couldn't  forget. 

He  stood  watching  a  sketch  from  the  first  entrance, 
one  night,  when  the  property  man  approached. 

"I  didn't  want  to  knock,  gov'nor,"  said  he,  "but  old 
Pete's  gettin  so  mean  the  performers  kin'  hardly  git 
past  him  to  come  in  to  do  their  own  turn.  He's 
terrible  grouchy.  We  ain't  done  anything  to  him. 

The  manager  went  out  to  Peter's  little  cubbyhole. 
It  was  snug  and  warm,  and  Peter  was  reading  the 
Bible  and  weeping  forlornly.  He  tried  to  hide  the 
witness  of  his  eyes  as  the  door  opened. 

"Why,  Peter,"  the  manager's  voice  expressed  gen- 
uine concern,  "what's  wrong?  Are  you  sick?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wisht  I  was  dead,"  burst  out  Peter,  a 
wrinkled  red  hand  over  his  face. 

"Is  it  money,  Peter?  You  haven't  been  playing  those 
fool  tips  the  boys  are  always  throwing  their  money 
away  on?" 

Then  Peter  told  his  boss  all  about  the  yearning. 

"Well,  old  lunatic !"  cried  the  manager.  "You 
couldn't  find  as  good  a  job  as  this.  I  don't  ask  you 
to  do  much,  do  I?" 

"Nope,"  answered  Peter  dejectedly. 

Before  the  manager  left,  he  said  that  if  Peter  wanted 
a  job  in  the  daytime  he  should  have  it. 

The  actors  going  out  marveled  at  Peter's  smile. 
He  even  spoke  to  one  or  two.  a  stranee  and  unusual 
occurrence.  At  last  the  daylight!  He  sighed  rap- 
turously. 

******* 

His  hour  for  starting  work  at  the  new  place  was 
347 


OLD  PETER 

8  A.  M.,  and  his  labor  consisted  of  acting  as  buffer 
between  the  secretary  of  an  important  man  of  affairs 
and  the  clamorous  public,  which  lied  and  wheedled 
in  an  effort  to  pass  the  guardian. 

It  was  bitingly  cold  in  the  early  mornings  when 
Peter,  awakened  by  the  alarm  clock,  whose  nerve  rack- 
ing voice  seemed  to  rip  through  his  very  flesh,  shiver- 
ingly  got  up.  The  people  on  his  way  to  work  were 
ill-  tempered  and  tired  looking,  instead  of  blithe  and 
gay  in  the  cheerful  sunlight,  as  he  had  expected. 

And  the  aches  were  much  worse.  He  thought  it  was 
from  getting  up  m  the  cold  before  Mrs.  McPherson's 
furnace  had  fully  heated  her  house,  where  he  roomed. 
Afternoons,  of  old,  it  had  been  warm  as  toast  when 
he  arose  to  partake  of  his  ham  and  eggs  and  tea  out 
in  the  kitchen  with  the  fat  landlady. 

He  stopped  reading  the  Bible,  because  he  had  no 
time,  for  nights  Peter  was  loafing  about  the  stage 
of  the  theatre  scowling  at  the  new  doortender  and 
talking  show  business  with  a  garrulousness  which 
caused  the  stage  hands  to  wonder  at  the  change. 

One  night  he  waited  until  the  last  one  had  slammed 
the  stage  door,  looked  angrily  in  at  the  new  man's 
paper  and  little  trifles  strewn  on  the  table  in  the  cuddy" 
hole,  and  at  last  stamped  home  to  bed. 

He  was  very  lonely,  for  the  few  cronies  with  whom 
he  had  formerly  chatted  in  the  late  afternoons  were 
not  to  be  found  at  night.  Everything  seemed  upside 
down.  He  decided  that  he  was  too  old  to  live  any  lunger 
and  thought  seriously  of  turning  on  the  gas  and  end- 
ing it.  He  went  to  sleep  at  his  post  in  the  office  one 
day  and  endured  a  severe  reprimand.  After  that  sui- 
cide seemed  really  pleasant.  He  would  go  to  the  old 
showshop  once  more,  sniff  in  the  good  old  smells  and 
sounds,  and  view  for  the  last  time  the  people  in  their 
make-up.  It  would  be  the  final  curtain. 

No  one  noticed  Peter  as  he  slipped  behind  a  piece 
of  scenery,  seating  himself  on  the  magician's  table. 
He  began  to  cry  softly  and  heart-brkenly. 

348 


OLD  PETER 

"Peter!"  said  some  one.  shaking1  him  a  liftl**  later. 
"Get  up!  Get  up,  and  go  back  to  your  old  job,  you 
old  ass!" 

The  manager  was  laughing,  but  his  touch  was  very 
tender. 

"To  the  door,  boss?"  asked  Peter,  his  face  alight. 

"Yes,  and  right  now,  too.  And  if  little  Miss  Smith's 
lush  of  a  husband  shows  up  kick  him  out !" 

"I'll  beat  his  face  in,"  said  Peter  ferociously.  Grin- 
ning, he  went  back  to  work. 


. 


Clancy,  the  Copper  and  the  Kid. 

SUM  CLANCY  was  "out"  again,  back  to  the  big  town 
and  good  old  Bowery,  which  isn't  such  a  dead  place  when 
one  knows  his  way  around.  Six  years  at  "hard,"  up  the 
river,  had  decided  Clancy  that  porch-climbing  was  a  bad 
game,  and  now  he  meant  to  jump  out  and  hustle  for  a  job, 
and  live  square.  And  it  was  not  as  easy  as  it  sounds, 
when,  since  he  first,  as  a  kid,  learned  how  to  cop  a  leather 
and  stall  for  his  big  brother  Tom,  he'd  done  nothing  but 
steal  for  a  living. 

"I  dunno  as  they's  anny  sense  in  makin'  this  play," 
Clancy  ruminated,  one  eye  on  the  tin  wash  pitcher,  which 
stood  on  a  dirty  stand  in  his  little  room  in  Clinton  street. 
"But  mebbe  a  guy  like  me  kin  be  on  the  level,  at  that. 
I'm  as  strong  as  ever  I  was,  an'  I'm  there  wit'  the  noive 
to  ast  fur  woik,  too.  An'  livin'  down  here  on  the  East 
Side's  cheap." 

Six  years  is  a  long  time,  and  many  come  and  go  among 
coppers  as  well  as  criminals ;  there  would  be  little  chance 
of  running  into  the  old  gang,  and  if  he  did,  why,  he'd  say 
he  was  trying  to  act  right,  and  it  would  be  settled.  His 
first  night's  sleep  free  from  the  warm  air  filled  with  the 
odor  of  antiseptics,  and  the  forbidding  iron  cell  door 
which  faced  him  first  as  he  awoke,  braced  him  wonder- 
fully. He  wanted  to  go  back  and  burrow  in  the  far  from 
cleanly  heap  of  bedclothes,  just  because  he  could,  with  no 
gruff  guard  to  turn  him  out  for  the  dreary  day's  unre- 
warded toil.  He  had  over  a  hundred  dollars,  some  of  it 
earned  in  a  shop,  the  rest  a  present  sent  years  before  from 
the  "Big  Five,"  with  whom  he  had  pulled  off  jobs  which 
made  Headquarters  curse  their  cleverness,  and  he  stowed 
it  away  carefully  about  himself.  Once,  with  a  century  in 

350 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

his  kick,  he  would  have  routed  out  the  old  crowd,  and  to- 
gether they  would  have  rioted  while  the  coin  lasted.  But 
an  honest  man  must  hoard  his  savings  to  tide  over  bleak, 
hungry  spaces  between  jobs.  It  seemed  as  though,  start- 
ing out  in  this  way,  differently  than  ever  before,  he  ought 
to  do  it  properly.  Up  the  river,  when  the  chaplain  prayed, 
Clancy  never  even  listened,  carrying  on  a  conversation 
with  his  fellow  convicts  by  means  of  a  system  of  wig- 
wagging, which  would  have  shocked  the  chaplain,  encour- 
aged by  the  apparently  reverent  silence  which  greeted  his 
efforts  to  make  converts  to  the  faith.  Clancy  carefully 
pulled  down  the  ragged  shade  which  flapped  in  the  breeze 
that  came  in,  bearing  a  cheerful  smell  of  cooking  from  the 
little  Jewish  restaurant  across  the  street.  Then,  flushing 
a  bit,  he  knelt,  burying  his  face  in  the  straw  mattress,  and 
pnived  in  his  own  way.  "Say,  God,  do  the  best  youse  kin 
fur  me !"  he  pleaded  earnestly.  "I  ain't  nawthin'  but  a 
bum,  but  just  watch  me !  I  won't  nail  nawthin'  what  I 
don't  woik  fur,  an'  that's  no  kid.  An'  I  wisht  yotise'd 
kind  o'  keep  an  eye  on  me.  Amen."  He  buttoned  his 
coat  over  the  sweater  he  had  bought  the  night  before,  on 
arriving  from  Sing  Sing,  and  went  out.  It  was  a  week 
before  he  found  a  job.  That  wasn't  a  good  one,  but 
bouncer  in  a  Second  avenue  joint,  where  the  back  room 
patrons  sometimes  got  rowdy  and  punched  their  lady 
friends,  was  better  than  nothing.  And  it  was  here  that 
he  saw  the  Kid.  A  frowsy,  peroxided  female  came  in  at 
midnight,  on  a  Sunday,  dragging  a  boy  of  five  with  her. 
"Gimme  some  booze !"  said  she,  noisily,  to  the  barkeeper, 
who  appeared.  "An'  give  the  brat  some,  too.  Keep  'im 
quiet." 

"I  wouldn't,"  advised  the  barkeeper,  casting  a  pitying 
eye  at  the  child,  who  sat  huddled  up  on  his  chair,  coughing 
violently.  "A  little  soda,  now,  eh?  That's  better  for  a 
kid." 

"I'd  kill  'im  fur  a  nickel !"  said  the  amiable  parent 
viciously.  "Keepin'  me  broke  lookin'  out  fur  him.* 

Clancy  drew  nearer.     He  had  been  sitting  in  a  corner, 

351 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

smoking  a  cigarette.     "Hello,  Bill,"  he  said  to  the  boy, 
patting  his  head.     "How  goes  it?" 

For  answer  the  child  stood  up  on  the  chair,  reached  up 
both  arms  to  Clancy's  neck,  and  sobbed  bitterly.  "Shut 
up !"  cried  the  woman.  "I'll  put  yuh  in  the  home,  sure !" 


Clancy  was  lonesome.  He  hadn't  a  friend  in  town,  be- 
cause he  wouldn't  go  near  the  old  crowd,  and  feared  to 
mike  new  ones.  They  might  find  out  about  him,  and  tell. 
He  grasped  the  woman's  arm,  excitedly.  "Give  him  to 
me,"  he  urged.  "I'll  take  him,  an'  feed  him.  Will 
youse?  An'  that'll  let  youse  out.  I  won't  be  mean  tuh 
him."  The  barkeeper,  returning,  tried  to  dissuade  Clan- 
cy, but  the  mother,  waiving  formalities  in  the  matter  of 
adoption,  hailed  the  offer  joyously.  And  about  four, 
when  his  duties  were  ended,  and  the  last  customer  had 
done  brawling  with  his  fellows,  Clancy  hopped  on  a  Sec- 
ond avenue  car,  changed  at  Madison  street,  and  landed  at 
the  litile  room,  bearing  a  sleepy  burden  wrapped  in  his 
overcoat.  "1  got  tuh  be  grabbin'  off  anoder  kind  of  a  job, 
see?"  lie  explained  to  Kid,  a  day  or  so  later.  "Summers 
where  I  kin  git  troo  by  night  time,  an'  we  kin  have  more 
time." 

''An'  buy  a  hossie,"  put  in  Kid,  hopefully. 

"Sure,  or  a  autymobile,"  agreed  Clancy,  grinning. 
"Youse  never  kin  tell,  we  might  git  money  yet.  I  got  a 
plan  in  me  nut."  But  the  Kid  was  under  the  bed  after  the 
engine,  which  Clancy  had  bought  him,  which  always  ran 
wherever  there  was  most  dust,  so  Clancy  ceased  speaking. 
Most  of  his  hoard  of  cash  had  gone  to  fix  up  Kid  with 
warm  clothes.  And  didn't  Clancy  have  a  fine  time  with 
the  buttons  and  bands  with  which  the  young  gentleman's 
garments  were  kept  together?  Kid  showed  him  all  about 
it,  and  Clancy's  stiff  fingers  ached  after  he  was  through 
buttoning  and  washing  his  charge,  but  he  liked  to  do  it. 

"This  is  the  answer,  Kid,"  said  he  contentedly.  "Why, 
a  guy  ain't  got  tuh  be  a  crook  ef  he  don't  want  tuh. 
A'course,  I  list  tuh  tear  off  a  t'ousand  sometimes,  an'  was 

352 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

a  high  roller,  but  hully  chee !  It's  better  this  way."  Kid 
was  no  lovely,  fair-haired  pet.  He  had  a  little  hooked 
nose,  black  eyes,  and  greasy  hair,  and  his  name  was  Ikey, 
but  Clancy  was  as  fond  of  him  as  if  he  had  been  Irish 
born,  and  in  return  Kid  was  for  Clancy,  first  and  last. 
They  ate  messes  of  potato  salad  and  sausages,  bad  coffee 
and  heavy  bread,  which  Clancy  purchased  and  brought 
home,  or  dined  in  a  five-cent  restaurant  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  P>o\very.  The  Kid  grew  fat,  thriving  on  the  diet, 
and  Clancy  lost  the  sallow  look  he  had  brought  back  from 


He  got  a  job  carrying  bricks  for  a  political  clubhouse  in 
process  of  construction  on  East  Broadway.  The  con- 
tractor took  scabs  as  well  as  union  men,  if  they  did  their 
work.  Clancy  got  his  $1.50  a  day,  and  worked  hard,  but 
he  didn't  mind  it.  Kid  played  with  a  good  natured  Polish 
woman's  olive  branches  during  the  day,  and  at  noon, 
while  Clancy  ate  his  dinner,  Minna,  the  oldest  girl, 
brought  Kid  over,  to  sit  with  Clancy,  and  he'd  go  capering 
around,  building  little  houses  with  the  bits  of  lumber 
which  lay  about.  One  day  a  plain  clothes  man  from 
Headquarters  came  along  to  see  the  new  clubhouse.  He 
was  with  the  district  captain,  and  they  stopped.  "Are 
these  men  registered?"  idly  inquired  the  detective.  Clancy 
had  just  bidden  Kid  good-by,  and  he  heard  the  voice.  Its 
owner  was  the  man  who  had  secured  his  conviction  and 
made  it  stick  when  a  certain  influence  had  got  the  rest  of 
Clancy's  partners  free.  Clancy  had  stolen  the  copper's 
"girl,"  a  lady  of  uncertain  character,  but  even  though  she 
were  not  of  the  cast  of  Vere  de  Vere,  the  copper  didn't 
want  a  crook  beating  him  out. 

Clancy  began  industriously  piling  bricks  into  his  hod. 
It  was  a  long  shot  that  he  would  be  recognized.  His 
mustache  was  gone,  and  he  looked  fifteen  years  older, 
and  he  wore  a  laborer's  flannel  shirt,  dusty,  heavy  shoes, 
and  worn  overalls. 

"Hello,  Slim,  turned  saint?"     Clancy  went  on  up  the 

353 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

ladder  with  his  bricks,  but  the  other  waited  until  he  came 
down.  The  world  suddenly  secerned  hard  and  cruel. 
This  fellow  would  knock  Clancy  to  the  boss,  even  pinch 
him  "on  suspicion"  if  he  felt  like  it. 

"Sir?"  returned  Clancy  in  answer  to  a  second  call. 

"Nothing,  now,"  said  the  "flattie"  calmly.  "I  just 
wanted  to  be  sure.  I  could  never  miss  that  scar  on  your 
face."  He  had  given  it  to  Clancy,  a  long  time  back, 
when  the  latter  wore  good  clothes  and  was  a  sporty  chap, 
and  pulled  a  gun  when  things  grew  hot.  Clancy  had 
pulled  it  just  a  bit  too  late,  once,  and  the  enemy  fired  first, 
grazing  his  cheek  in  a  nasty  way. 

"Cookin'  up  something,  eh?"  laughed  the  detective. 
"Honest  man,  and  all  that !" 

Clancy  went  on  working.  He  felt  sick  all  over,  because 
if  this  man  wished  he  could  prevent  any  one  hiring  an  ex- 
convict,  no  matter  how  real  the  convict's  reformation.  It 
had  happened  plenty  of  times  before.  Next  day,  when  he 
came  to  work,  the  boss  didn't  need  him.  Was  letting  sev- 
eral go,  he  said  easily,  and  the  scabs  went  first,  before 
union  men.  Clancy  was  wise.  The  enemy  had  spoken. 

He  got  another  job,  working  in  a  sewer,  his  back  aching 
with  the  endless  bending  and  shoveling.  Three  days, 
and  he  was  again  tramping  miserably  around  looking  for 
work.  He  ran  into  "Boston  Harry,"  an  all  around 
crook.  Startled  by  an  old  pal's  shabby  condition,  the 
crook  amiably  offered  to  take  him  in  on  a  crib-cracking 
expedition  which  would  shortly  occur. 

"No,  many  t'anks,  old  felly,"  said  Clancy,  "but  I'm 
tryin'  tuh  be  on  the  level — no  offense  tuh  youse — an'  I 
better  keep  on  tryin'." 

"Be  a  mark,  if  you  want  to,  Slim,"  said  Frank,  disgust- 
edly. "There's  nothin'  in  it.  They'll  be  muggin'  you 
over  again  some  day,  see  if  they  don't." 

And  so  they  did.  Clancy  was  down  on  the  docks,  with 
a  temporary  job  loading  cargo  aboard  a  freighter.  Kid 
was  at  home,  sleeping,  for  this  was  night  and  day  work, 
and  pay  by  the  hour,  and  Clancy  wanted  to  earn  all  he 
could,  now  it  was  breaking  so  hard  for  them.  "The  cap- 

354 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

tain  wants  to  see  you,  Clancy!"  It  was  his  friend  the 
flattie  and  his  partner,  and  they  took  Clancy  to  their  pre- 
cinct station  house,  and  gave  him  a  night  in  a  cell.  The 
magistrate  discharged  him  next  morning. 

"Judge,  I  ain'  done  a  wrong  t'ing,  s'help  me,"  cried 
Clancy,  piteously,  "an'  I  got  a  kid  waitin'  fur  me  home. 
Oh,  chee,  yer  Honor,  gimme  a  chanct.  I'm  only  tryin'  tuh 
be  square,  an'  the  cops  won't  let  me." 

"Go,  Clancy,  and  be  an  honest  man,"  said  His  Honor, 
much  affected,  and  later  he  scored  the  man  who  had 
brought  Clancy  in,  which  didn't  make  the  flattie's  feeling 
for  Clancy  any  kinder. 

"Where  was  yuh,  Mickey?"  prattled  the  Kid.  "Couldn't 
get  dressed  wif'out  yuh." 

Clancy  held  back  his  tears,  and  gathered  the  small  per- 
son to  his  breast.  He  rustled  some  food  when  Kid  said  he 
had  a  pain  'cause  his  tummy  ached,  and  they  ate  together, 
Kid  babbling  contentedly  and  Clancy  listening,  half  mad 
with  wondering  if  the  persecution  would  keep  on.  A  six 
days'  hunt  resulted  in  a  good  job  in  Harlem,  at  $1.50  a 
day,  helping  a  blacksmith.  Clancy  moved  Kid  up  there, 
and  breathed  easy.  It  was  a  long  way  from  the  East 
Side.  But  on  Saturday  night  of  the  first  week  the  boss 
said  sternly  he  wanted  no  criminals  around  his  shop,  and 
Clancv  understood. 


He  cleaned  windows  in  Brooklyn,  then  landed  back  on 
the  Bowery,  a  little  shy  on  regular  feeds  himself,  but  Kid 
hadn't  missed  one.  Then  one  day  the  flattie,  who  turned 
up  at  all  times  and  places,  met  Clancy. 

"Why  don't  you  turn  a  trick,  Slim?"  he  sneered.  "A 
slick  guy  like  you  can  get  a  bundle  in  an  hour,  and  yet 
you  go  dubbing  around  doing  common  work.  You,  who 
used  to  be  aces  with  all  the  chorus  girls,  too!  I'm  sur- 
prised." 

Clancy  choked  back  the  curses  which  he  wanted  to  hurl 
at  the  enemy,  and  answered  shortly.  He  tried  to  find  a 
way  by  which  he  could  get  fare  to  Philadelphia  together. 

355 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

It  was  big,  and  the  flattie  wouldn't  follow  there.  But 
every  cent  went  for  food  and  a  place  to  sleep  now,  and  he 
simply  couldn't  get  it.  He  even  timorously  went  into  a 
saloon  where  he  had  spent  thousands  of  his  former  loot 
over  the  bar,  but  a  new  man  ran  it  now,  and  there  was 
nothing  doing. 

There  came  a  day  when  Kid  must  go  without  a  meal. 
Then  Clancy  decided  being  honest  was  foolish,  and  he 
made  hurried  preparation  to  return  to  his  old  calling. 
Near  by  the  place  in  Harlem  where  he  had  worked  a  week 
was  a  fine  apartment  house.  The  blacksmith  had  chatted 
about  the  tenants.  They  were  all  rich,  and  "swell."  And 
Clancy,  from  old-time  habit,  had  noted  a  dozen  ways  of 
getting  into  the  place  by  the  fire  escapes  and  other  means. 
He  proposed  to  take  a  chance. 

Rid  slept,  muttering  in  a  dream,  and  Clancy,  in  his  old 
suit,  departed  cautiously,  in  order  not  ti  wake  him.  It 
was  a  long  walk  to  Harlem  in  a  biting  January  wind. 
His  overcoat  was  in  pawn,  and  his  blood,  thinned  by  lack 
of  food  and  warm  clothing,  seemed  like  little  streams  of 
icy  water  in  his  veins.  It  was  late  when  he  had  found 
out  just  how  the  patrolman  made  his  rounds.  Clancy 
slipped  around  to  the  rear  of  the  big  building  when  the 
coast  was  clear.  It  was  easy  to  climb  to  the  first  floor, 
where  the  fire  escape  began.  He  passed  windows  on  the 
ascent,  through  which  he  could  see  people,  warrr  and 
cheery,  enjoying  themselves.  At  the  fourth  floor  all  was 
dark,  and  a  window  was  opened  an  inch  or  so,  for  air. 
He  peered  in.  No  sound  of  breathing  came  from  inside, 
and  he  carefully  raised  the  sash.  It  didn't  squeak,  luck- 
ily, so  he  climbed  in.  It  was  warm  and  pleasant.  In  a 
smaller  room,  off  the  first,  a  man  lay  in  bed,  breathing 
regularly  in  deep  skep.  Clancy  had  entered  via  the  dress- 
ing room.  He  tiptoed  through  the  flat,  carrying  his 
shoes  tied  together  by  a  lace. 

NTo  one  else  about,  but  a  woman's  things  showed  that  one 
lived  there.  And  there  was  a  little  fur  coat,  and  a  fur 
cap,  and  these  articles  he  put  together  for  Kid.  A  noise 
came  from  the  bedroom.  The  man  was  awake,  perhaps. 

356 


CLANCY,  THE  COPPER  AND  THE  KID. 

A  second  or  two,  and  Clancy  was  at  the  bedside.  A  gun 
flashed  in  the  dim  light,  pulled  by  the  man  in  bed  from 
under  his  pillow,  but  Clancy,  desperate,  snatched  it,  and 
beat  the  man  wiluly  on  the  temples  with  it.  The  other, 
moaning,  sank  back  weakly.  Clancy  tied  him  hand  and 
foot,  with  a  sheet  ripped  in  two,  and  gagged  him  as  well. 

There  were  several  diamond  rings  and  pins,  a  fine 
overcoat,  and  plenty  of  thick,  woolly  underwear.  Clancy 
selected  what  would  come  in  handy,  then  searched  the 
man's  trousers  hanging  over  a  chair.  Seventy  dollars 
resulted,  which  he  pouched  delightedly.  He  went  to  the 
kitchen,  found  a  supply  of  food,  and  supped  heartily,  put- 
ting up  a  good  lunch  for  Kid  when  he  finished.  He 
turned  on  the  light  in  the  dining-room.  A  note  lay  on 
the  tafre.  and  on  top  of  it  a  thick  roll  of  tens  and  twen- 
ties. He  read  the  note.  There  was  five  hundred. 

"Dear  Jim:  Mamma  came  over  and  wanted  me  to  go 
back  with  her.  Will  be  back  by  10  A.  M.  'Phone  me  if 
you  need  me.  I  am  leaving  mamma's  b:lated  Christmas 
present.  Isn't  it  lovely? — MAUD." 

And  it  was  addressed  to  the  flattie  who  had  made 
Clancy  a  thief  again  ! 

"Hully  chee,"  said  Clancy,  softly.  "Here's  where  he 
gets  his." 

Ten  minutes  afterward  he  was  down  in  the  street.  The 
big  overcoat  hid  his  old  clothes,  and  the  other  stuff  was 
in  a  suitcase  he  had  found.  No  one  stopped  him,  and  by 
three  he  was  with  Kid. 

"Down  tuh  Mexico  fur  ours,  now,  Kid,"  said  he. 
"This  town  runs  fur  udders.  An'  this  time  I'm  goin' 
where  I  won't  git  nailed." 

And  Clancy  and  Kid  are  somewhere  in  Sonora  now, 
getting  along  nicely,  and  living  as  honestly  as  Clancy  had 
hoped  to  do  in  New  York. 


The   Fake    Hop   Fiends. 

The  guests  of  the  Maison  de  Shine  are  in  the  hall,  at  5.30]?.  M. 


THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Say,  ain't  dinner  near 
ready? 

THE  LANDLADY— Now,  Mista  Johnson,  yuh 
folks  kin  suttenly  wait  a  minnit.  Susy,  I  wisht  yuh'd 
try  tuh  find  out  what  that  there  strange  odor  is. 
What  kin  it  be? 

THE  SOUBRETTE  (sniffing  the  air)— It  smells 
like  joss  sticks  bein,  burned,  ef  you  ast  me.  When  I 
was  with  the  "The  Burglar's  Bride"  comp'ny,  we  gells 
used  'em  in  the  dressin'  room,  so  the  stage  damager 
wouldn't  catch  us  smokin'  cigarettes. 

LITTLE  MINNIE  MANGLE— I  know,  but  I  ain't 
goin'  to  tell.  Mommer,  I  wanna  fried  negg  fur  my 
dinner.  Kin  I  have  it? 

MRS.  MANGLE— No,  you  can't.  You  jest  eat 
what's  set  before  you.  Say,  this  stuff  is  getting 
worse.  It  was  bad  enough  to  be  smelling  that  cook- 
ing cabbitch  all  day.  It  seems  like  the  guests  here 
gotter  put  up  with  plenty. 

BIRDIE  BARRINGTON  (the  vocalist;  been  in 
comic  opera,  and  now  in  vaudeville) — I  smelled  it 
last  night,  coming  up  the  air  shaft.  If  it  don't  stop  I 
shall  leave.  I  ain't  been  in  the  habit  of  stoppin'  at 
any  but  refined  joints,  and  if  one  must  be  pestered 
this  way  I  won't  stand  it. 

THE  MAGICIAN'S  WIFE  (wears  black  silk  tights 
in  the  act  and  helps  father  with  his  props.) — Some 

358 


THE  FAKE  HOP  FIENDS. 

folks  seems  to  forgit  that  other  parties  can  tell  their 
real  names.  P'raps  you  don't  remember  when  you 
was  doin'  sixteen  shows  a  day  with  your  first  husband 
in  a  Butte  honkatonk?  Well,  I  do! 

THE  MAGICIAN  (warningly) — Now,  don't  git  in 
no  battle  with  that  dame.  We're  on  the  same  bill 
and  she  can  put  in  a  knock  with  the  house  manager — 
I  told  you  once  he's  stuck  on  her — and  maybe  have 
our  act  put  in  a  bad  spot. 

BIRDIE  BARRING'!  ON  (haughtily)— Them  low 
shoots  is  too  fur  below  me  fur  me  to  reply.  But  I 
can  lick  you  in  a  punch. 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (eagerly)— They're  goin' 
to  mix  it  up.  The  little  un'll  win  out,  see  if  she  don't. 
My  eye!  dames  is  allus  fightin'. 

THE  LANDLADY— Susy  5  Where  are  yuh  ?  Have 
yuh  traced  it? 

Boarders  all  commence  sniffing  curiously  again. 

THE  SLAVEY  (from  above)— Nome,  nothin'  doin' 
up  here !  They  ain't  nobody  in  their  rooms  but  the 
Brothers  Pizzicatta,  cleanin'  their  costumes  with  ben- 
zine. Tain't  from  that. 

THE  LANDLADY— Tell  them  boys  they  kinnot 
use  no  benzine  in  this  house !  What  with  me  ket- 
chin'  'em  cookin'  spaghetti  on  the  gas  an'  tearin'  up 
the  bedspreads  to  use  fur  makeup  towels,  they're  put- 
tin'  the  place  on  the  fritz! 

(Door  of  "parlor  bedroom"  on  ground  floor  opens, 
and  a  tall,  palefaced  man  emerges.  Immediately  the 
strange  odor  increases). 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (edging  close  to  new- 
comer)— Say,  what  you  got  on  you?  Smells  awful 
funny. 

CHARLIE  GOTTEM  (of  Gottem  &  Dreem,  rapid 
fire  talking  act.  He  gazes  blankly  at  boarders) — 
Hello!  Well,  Mis'  De  Shine,  we  want  to  hire  your 
whole  second  floor  to-morrow.  Just  signed  for  ninety 
weeks  at  $8,000  a  week  with  Keith  &  Proctor,  and  un- 
less we  let  Belasco  star  us  we'll  take  it.  Any  one  got 

359 


THE  FAKE  HOP  FIENDS. 

change  for  a  seven-dollar  bill?     Ah!    I'll  catch  it  yet! 
('He  jumps  at  wall,  clawing  at  large  pink  rose,  part 
of  the  wall  paper's  design — then  smiles  foolishly). 
Pretty,  pretty! 

THE  LANDLADY— Just  Heaving!  is  he  crazy? 
Mista  Johnson,  promise  yuh  won't  leave  me  alone 
with  no  loonatic! 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (chuckling)— He's  got  it 
bad.  The  Willies,  I  guess 

THE  SOUBRETTE  (mysteriously)— I  see  it  all 
now.  It  ain't  licker  ails  him  at  all.  It's  hop! 

THE  LANDLADY  (agitated)— My  Gawd,  Stella, 
whadda  yuh  mean? 

MRS.  MANGLE— Opium!  John  Mangle,  this  is 
no  place  for  our  child ! 

MR.  MANGLE  (deeply  interested)— You  take  her 
upsta'rs.  I  may  be  needed  here. 

LITTLE  MINNIE  MANGLE— I  knowed  it  all 
the  time,  'cause  I  seen  their  pipe !  I  wanna  be  a  hop- 
fiend,  like  Mister  Gottem,  mommer!  Kin  I? 

(Door  opens,  and  Harry  Dreem,  the  other  half  of 
the  act,  comes  out.  Inside  the  room  is  full  of  smoke. 
An  opium  layout  is  on  the  floor.) 

THE  LANDLADY— Call  the  waggin'!  I'm  goin' 
tuh  have  these  wretches  pinched  fur  defilin'  a  Christ- 
ian home  with  that  there  horrid  stuff! 

MR.  DREEM  (address'ns:  her) — Kin'ly  move  your 
foot,  madame.  You  are  standing  on  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  and  I  want  to  use  it  to  buy  another  shell. 

MR.  GOTTEM  (uncertainly) — Lemme  take  a 
thousand.  (The  partners,  in  pantomime,  go  through 
act  of  handing  and  receiving  phanton  money.) 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN— Fine  for  you,  Maggie. 
I  a?t  for  the  first  floor  front,  an'  you  said  nix,  but  you 
let  a  coupla  dopes  have  it. 

THE  LANDLADY  (weeping)— Oh,  I  done  wrong; 
I  know  it  now.  Didn't  they  say  they  had  three 
hundred  comin'  Satiddy,  an'  one  was  Emp'ror  W il- 
ium's nevvy,  but  fur  me  not  tuh  say  so,  account  of 

360 


THE  FAKE  HOP  FIENDS. 

gett'.n'  the  Emp  sore,  an'  they  been  stallin'  every  day 
about  their  board! 

MR.  GOTTEM  (loudly)— Hey,  call  the  Chink  and 
let's  smoke  up ! 

ALL  THE  BOARDERS— This  in  an  outrage! 

THE  MAGICIAN— Looks  like  dinner's  ready. 
Let's  eat,  anyway. 

(The  slavery  opens  dining-room  door,  clanging  bell, 
although  tableful  is  in  front  of  her. 

THE  LANDLADY— Oh,  I  ast  of  fate,  what  more 
blows  in  a-goin'  tuh  fall  on  a  pore  lone  woman? 
Here !  Get  outa  this  house,  yuh  ruffians !  Never 
mind  the  bill ! 

MR.  GOTTEM  (suddenly  losing  foolish  air,  grabs 
grip  from  behind  door) — Come  on,  Harry! 

MR.  DREEM — I'm  with  you,  bo;  hustle  along! 
(They  rush  out  front  door.)  Say,  I  guess  that  was 
bad,  cookin'  two  bits'  worth  of  dope  on  that  old  prop 
pipe  and  lo^in'  a  $30  board  bill!  They  hasten  up 
street,  laughinsr  merrily.) 

THE  PROPERTY  MAN  (looking  at  pipe)— Hully 
gee!  this  is  mv  prop  I  had  in  "King  of  the  Hopfiends"! 

THE  LANDLADY— Stung  again!  Oh,  I  wisht  I 
was  in  my  grave! 


Roosevelt  Has  a  Christmas  Party 

Minus  the  usual  features  of  all  really,  truly  mining  camp  celebrations. 

ROOSEVELT'S  bad  man  was  doing  his  washing  and  clean- 
ing up  camp  generally.  He  routed  out  a  nest  of  pink- 
bellied  woodrats  which  had  made  a  cosy  home  among  his 
pack  saddles,  cached  for  the  winter  under  the  little,  snow- 
banked  tent  which  held  his  grub,  pack  ropes  and  prospect- 
ing tools.  The  rats  fled,  squealing,  when  he  poked  at  them 
with  the  axe  handle.  Shakespeare,  the  tailless  "husky," 
who  shared  the  bad  man's  fortunes,  finished  them  off 
quickly. 

"Gettin*  sort  of  hungry,  Shake?"  asked  the  bad  man, 
whose  regular  name  was  Buck. 

Shake  was  always  hungry,  so  Buck  got  out  the  bacon, 
mixed  up  a  bannock,  filled  the  coffee  pot  from  a  tin  bucket 
of  melted  snow  water,  then  put  a  chunk  of  wood  into  the 
dinky  sheet  iron  stove. 

"'Well,  cleaned  up  till  spring,  now,"  he  remarked,  cast- 
ing an  eye  on  four  blue  shirts  and  a  motley  array  of 
patched  underwear  and  woollen  socks  which  hung  on  nails, 
drying.  "We'll  eat  an'  then  santer  downtown,"  went  on 
Buck.  "How  'bout  you  ?"  He  flipped  the  cooking  ban- 
nock ("baking  powder  brand")  up  in  the  air,  squinted  at 
the  coffee  pot,  and  turned  the  thick  slices  of  bacon. 

Shakespeare  barked  in  pleasant  anticipation.  When 
the  meal  was  ready,  Buck  cleared  a  space  on  the  table,  its 
top  of  split  logs  laid  flat  side  up,  with  an  oilcloth  covering, 
and  set  out  a  tin  plate  and  cup.  The  husky  had  his  cup 
of  black,  sweetened  coffee,  his  bacon  and  bits  of  hot, 
doughy  bannock,  smeared  with  grease.  Man  and  dog  ate 
contentedly,  Buck  talking,  Shake  replying  by  whines  and 
little  friendly  barks. 

362 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

"Clean  the  tinware  to-morrow,"  announced  Buck.  "No 
use  bein'  to  blame  ladylike  'bout  this  here  housekeepin'. 
Want  your  shoes  on?"  Shake  for  answer  rolled  on  the 
floor,  elevating  his  paws.  Buck  got  out  a  set  of  "shoes," 
made  of  round  pieces  of  deerskin,  with  a  hide  string,  which 
gathered  the  edges  tight  about  the  dog's  ankles.  In  the 
fall,  galloping  after  the  woodchucks  over  the  sharp  slide 
rock  had  worn  Shake's  toe  nails  to  the  quick,  hence  the 
shoes. 

There  was  snow  on  the  hills  now,  packed  thirty  feet 
high  on  the  summits,  but  down  in  the  narrow  canyon, 
where  Roosevelt's  tents  and  cabins  clustered,  there  was 
but  little.  Sometimes  a  sort  of  mongrel  Chinook  wind 
blew  warmly  down  from  the  coast,  melting  the  ice  of  the 
south  hillsides  temporarily.  It  was  cold,  but  some  of  the 
gold  prospects  could  still  be  worked  by  patient  picking  at 
the  frozen  ledges.  It's  a  quartz  country,  up  in  the  Idaho 
mountains,  and  every  foot  uncovered  by  the  pioneers  of 
Roosevelt,  the  new  gold  district,  made  more  rosy  the  com- 
ing of  spring,  with  its  thousands  of  moneyed  gold  seekers, 
now  making  ready  for  the  rush  as  soon  as  the  trails  were 
passable.  *  •;•*  -.4{ 

Meanwhile,  the  first  comers  staked  out  and  finished  their 
location  work,  chuckling  as  they  thought  of  the  easy  marks 
whose  gold  was  easier  to  nail  than  that  hidden  in  the  hills. 


Thompson's  saloon,  a  big  tent  mounted  on  a  log  foun- 
dation, was  lively  when  Buck  had  tramped  down  the 
packed  trail  to  the  big  camp.  The  gramophone,  which  old 
Tonopah  Smith  had  packed  in  before  snow  got  too  deep 
on  the  summits  for  horses  and  mules  to  cross,  was  noisily 
playing  a  band  record,  while  Thompson's  customers 
whistled  and  sang,  between  drinks. 

"Hullo,  Buck,"  said  Thompson.  "Little  'skee  fur 
you-all?"  Buck  allowed  that  would  suit  him  nicely. 
Shakespeare  went  to  sleep  under  the  log  bar  with  Injun 
Bill's  sheep  dog  and  the  setter  owned  by  "Doc,"  the  camp's 
lawyer. 

363 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

There's  plenty  of  money  in  even  a  poor  camp  for  the 
man  of  law,  for  disputes  over  locations  and  endless  compli- 
cations give  him  business  all  the  time.  Doc  was  pros- 
perous. 

Buck  was  deputy  recorder.  He  got  $2  for  ever)-  claim 
for  which  he  gave  out  a  certificate;  consequently  he  had 
money.  He  wasn't  a  really  ferocious  bad  man,  but  they 
had  none  badder  in  Snowslide.  So  Buck  held  the  honor, 
although  Thunder  Mountain  Brown  covered  it.  But 
he  was  more  easily  bluffed  than  Buck,  a  small,  scrubby- 
mustached  man,  who  lugged  a  big  navy  .45  about,  assum- 
ing in  company  a  gruff,  loud  tone  which  made  Shakes- 
peare sigh  wearily  and  go  to  sleep.  Shake  preferred  the 
lower  voice  in  which  Buck  conversed  at  home. 

Buck  "bought"  all  around,  and  everybody  grew  even 
more  sociable. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  Peory,  111.,  paper,  that's  sure,"  lamented 
the  assayer,  who  thirsted  for  home  news.  Tonopah 
Smith  was  privately  examining  a  bit  of  paper.  "Do  you 
guys  know  what  the  date  is  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  'Bout  time  to  take  a  drink,  that's  whar  my  knowin'- 
ness  ends,"  observed  Doc,  amiably.  "Set  'em  up,  Thomp, 
an'  have  one  yourself.  It'll  give  us  confidence  to  see  you 
lickin'  up  your  own  snakewater,  which  sure  holds  the  rec- 
ord for  bum  whisky." 

"Contrary  minded  say  'No/ "  put  in  Buck,  gayly. 
Thompson  didn't  mind  such  jests,  and  anywray,  it  was 
quite  true. 

"To-morrer,"  said  Tonopah,  impressively,  "is  Christ- 
mas !  And  us  slobs  didn't  even  know  it !  Why,  when  I 
was  on  the  Sacramento  River  in  '50  we  allus  celebrated 
holidays." 

"Shut  up!"  "Choke  him!"  yelled  Tonopah's  friends, 
who  had  listened  too  often  to  his  tales  of  '49. 

"Well,  gimme  a  drink,  then,"  said  he,  peaceably.  "But 
ain't  this  prairie  dawg  camp  a-goin'  to  do  nothin'  ?"  Doc, 
whose  word  was  considered  fairly  trustworthy,  got  out  his 
own  calendar  and  declared  that  for  once  Tonopah  had 

364 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

spoken  truth.  Doc  grew  sentimental  and  made  a  speech, 
but  Buck  cut  in  on  it. 

"You've  read  them  tales  of  the  gloomy  group  of  lonely 
miners  findin'  the  freezin'  enfant,  an'  framin'  it  up  a 
Christmas  tree,  I  suspect,"  he  remarked.  "But  we  ain't 
got  any  enfant,  nor  no  skirts  of  no  kind,  an'  we  ain't  so 
dretful  gloomy,  long's  the  booze  holds  out.  I  vote  we 
have  doin's,  an'  cut  up  quite  some.  We  must  be  gay." 

"Oh,  you  ain't  said  a  thing,  Buck !"  retorted  Tonopah. 
"What  kind  of  doin's  kin  we  have  what  ain't  been  did  ?" 

"That's  got  to  be  doped  out,"  replied  Buck.  "We  could 
get  up  a  dinner,  and  a  vodeville  show  to  follow.  An'  you 
kin  be  the  leadin'  lady." 

"There  ain't  no  female  clothes  in  camp!"  exclaimed 
Tonopah,  impatiently.  "I  ain't  goin'  piroutin'  around 
less'n  I'm  dressed  ki-rect.  See?" 

Orville,  Johnson  Thompson's  Chicago  barkecp,  sud- 
denly spoke.  "There's  a  bunch  of  clothes  up  at  the  Sunny- 
side  cabin,"  said  he.  "Came  in  with  their  supplies,  wh.n 
Jim  Mason  thought  his  wife  was  coming  in.  Jim's  down 
at  Warren,  and  we  could  get  'em  easy." 

Henry  Weber,  from  Cripple  Creek,  favored  the  plan, 
but  young  Jim  Jewell  objected.  "It  ain't  right  to  go 
bustin'  into  people's  packs,"  said  he.  "Tell  you  what  I 
wish.  If  I  had  my  old  Nig  here,  I'd  do  some  fancy 
ridin'." 

"What,  that  old  black  cayuse,  with  one  eye?"  sneered 
Buck.  "Now,  if  you  undertook  to  break  my  three-year- 
old  mule,  what  I  win  from  that  Salt  Lake  guy,  that'd  be 
something  to  make  a  brag  on  !" 

Doc  spoiled  what  every  one  had  hoped  would  be  a 
cheerful  scrap  if  properly  worked  up. 

"It's  a  lot  of  use  hollering  about  'em,  when  they're  fifty 
miles  off,  on  the  South  Fork  of  Salmon,  or  on  Winter 
range,  gents,"  he  observed,  contemptuously.  "Now,  no 
personal  arguments  can  be  tolerated  around  this  camp  at 
present.  All  and  sundry  got  to  pitch  in  and  frame  up  the 
big  thing." 

"Can't  do  nothin'  till  we  wet  up  all  'round,  boys,"  sug- 

365 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

gested  Injun  Billy.  "On  me,  Thomp.  Say,  Thomp,  how 
much  booze  you  got,  anyway?  Mebbe  there  won't  be 
enough." 

This  was  a  calamity  upon  which  none  had  wasted  a 
thought,  and  an  anxious  chorus  instantly  entreated 
Thompson  to  tell  the  worst  at  once. 

He  grinned  reassuringly.  "Seein'  as  I  had  a  forty- 
mule  pack  train  loaded  with  licker  kegs  come  in  just  before 
the  trails  closed,  you  ain't  got  no  cause  to  worry,"  he  said, 
amiably.  "That  part's  O.  K.  This  is  on  the  house. 
Ain't  you  goin'  to  appoint  a  committee  on  entertainment  ?" 

"Sure,"  and  Doc  counted  noses  at  once,  selecting  vari- 
ous citizens,  who  made  jestful  sallies  in  answer  to  their 
names  as  he  called  them  off.  It  was  further  decided  that 
as  they  had  all  winter  to  drowse  in,  sleep  would  be  cut  out 
for,  this  night.  The  committee  of  ten  were  to  arrange 
matters,  while  the  rest  were  to  foster  the  festive  spirit  and 
contribute  anything"  needful  from  their  outfits.  Tonopah, 
even  before  the  committee  began  work,  had  acquired  a 
fair  amount  of  the  demon  rum  under  his  belt,  and  he  was 
ready  for  anything  by  the  time  he,  with  Buck  and  Injun 
Billy,  had  floundered  up  through  the  snow  to  the  Sunny- 
side  cabin  on  Mule  Creek.  Lanterns  there  were  none  in 
Roosevelt  in  the  early  days  of  1901,  for  glass  won't  ride 
well  over  steep  mountain  trails,  but  of  candles,  more  pre- 
cious than  a  string  of  pearls,  there  was  a  scanty  hoard. 
Injun  Billy  carried  one  to  light  their  way,  flickering  in  a 
wooden  box,  the  light  turned  from  the  wind.  A  pack 
done  up  in  a  saddle  blanket  yielded  female  garments  of 
some  sort,  which  Buck  took  charge  of.  Tonopah  saved  a 
lot  of  work  by  sliding  home  in  foolish  drunken  fashion, 
with  Injun  Billy  prodding  him  gleefully  as  Tonopah  bur- 
rowed in  the  snow.  They  halted  at  Doc's  tent  on  the  east 
side  of  frozen  Monumental  Creek,  which  split  Roosevelt 
in  two,  and  joined  the  committee.  Tonopah  was  weeping 
sadly,  the  tears  freezing  as  they  fell,  because  they  couldn't 
find  any  child  to  succor. 

"What  that  old  prairie  dog  sniffling  about  ?"  demanded 
366 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

Doc.  "Here,  let  up,  Tonopah!  What  in  Billy-be-dam 
ails  you  ?" 

"Him  saying  about  us  havin'  no  enfant  to  find  layin'  in 
the  snow.  We  ain't  a  reg'lar  camp,  nohow !"  bleated 
Tonopah. 

"Put  him  off  the  committee!"  cried  Injun  Billy. 
"Darned  old  cuss,  he's  just  been  a  cryin'  and  a  cussin'  all 
the  way.  I'll  give  him  a  punch  in  the  nose !" 

"G'wan  to  sleep,  Tonopah,  you're  bughouse,"  advised 
Buck,  so  Tonopah  bunked  down  on  Doc's  blankets,  where 
he  soon  snorted  in  disturbed  slumber.  Any  one  could  see 
he  was  no  man  for  a  committee. 

They  settled  to  serious  work,  by  the  light  of  a  candle. 
This  was  a  serious  affair. 


The  dinner  was  first,  and  all  hands  were  busy  at  it. 
Injun  Billy  had  been  holding  out  a  can  of  cocoa  for  three 
months ;  also  he  had  a  two-pound  can  of  butter,  a  luxury 
possessed  by  no  other  gentleman  there.  Billy  was  making 
cornstarch  puddings,  flavoring  them  with  the  cocoa  and 
lots  of  sugar.  He  had  no  milk,  so  he  used  snow  water, 
and  cooked  relays  of  pudding  in  two  small  pails. 

Early  in  the  day  he  had  stolen  into  the  disreputable 
Tonopah's  tent  in  search  of  the  biggest  bucket  in  camp, 
which  the  old  sinner  owned,  but  the  assayer,  who  had  a 
venison  stew  to  prepare,  had  beaten  him  to  it. 

They  clinched  in  a  furious  embrace  when  Billy  en- 
deavored to  wrest  the  bucket  from  the  assayer,  and  the 
latter  came  out  of  it  with  a  tooth  or  so  loose,  but  he  had 
the  bucket,  and  flew  joyously  back  to  his  big  log  fire,  where 
Buck  was  riding  herd  on  all  the  Dutch  ovens  in  camp, 
filled  with  baking  bannocks.  "Gimme  your  gun,  old  pal," 
panted  the  assayer.  ''Doggone  him,  he  don't  cook  any 
pudding  in  this,  and  me  with  a  whole  three-year-old  buck 
to  stew  up.  Blame  his  Injun  hide!" 

Billy  came  whooping  down  the  trail !  "Whee-ee !  I'm 
a  comin'!  Make  way  for  the  Roosevelt  express!"  Just 
then  he  stubbed  his  toe,  landing  in  the  midst  of  Buck's 

367 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

flock  of  ovens,  whereupon  their  guardian  rapped  Billy 
smartly  on  the  head  with  his  gun  butt,  sternly  command- 
ing him  to  arise  and  vamoose.  Billy  vamoosed,  hustling 
back  to  his  puddings.  Forty-two  tin  cans  were  to  be 
filled  for  as  many  stomachs  yearning  for  sweet  stuff.  It 
seemed  hopeless,  but  fortified  by  a  large  drink,  he  cooked 
and  stirred  and  tasted,  setting  the  completed  ones  out  in  a 
snowbank  to  harden. 

Young  Jim  Jewell  was  mixing  dumplings  for  the  as- 
sayer's  stew  by  the  big  fire,  clumsily  stirring  it  with  a  stick, 
his  wool  mittens  preventing  a  really  graceful  performance. 
Thunder  Mountain  Williams  was  not  very  sober,  but  he 
could  navigate,  so  the  committee  set  him  on  guard  to 
watch  the  dried  prunes  and  apricots,  peaches  and  apples, 
the  miner's  standbv.  Thev  bubbled  pleasantly  as  he  sol- 
emnly watched.  Once  he  fell  into  the  fire,  but  Orville,  the 
barkeep,  who  was  slicing  bacon  and  thawing  out  a  big 
piece  of  elk  meat,  rescued  him,  and  Williams  resumed  his 
scrutiny  of  the  fruit  pails. 

With  flour  at  $16  a  100  pounds,  it  was  no  cheap  Christ- 
mas dinner.  Each  man  brought  his  own  dishes,  crowding 
them  on  Thompson's  bar  and  in  any  vacant  space  inside 
the  saloon. 

It  began  to  snow  outside,  a  little  at  first,  then  faster, 
until  the  wind  whipping  it  wetly  into  his  face  awoke  the 
startled  Williams,  asleep  at  the  switch,  with  the  small  of 
crackling,  burning  apricots  ascending  to  the  gray  winter 
sky.  Guiltily,  he  thrust  the  stinking  apricots  into  a  drift 
of  snow,  hastening  to  drop  a  chunk  of  it  into  the  remaining 
pails,  saved  just  in  time. 

Buck  fired  his  .45  three  times;  that  was  the  signal. 
Bearing  pots  and  pails,  steaming  armfuls  of  bread  and  bat- 
tered pails  of  coffee,  the  camp  came  shouting  into  Thomp- 
son's. Orville  set  out  dozens  of  little  thick  glasses,  an 
appetizer  contributed  by  "the  house."  Injun  Billy,  cov- 
ered with  snow,  came  in  with  the  last  bunch  of  canned 
pudding.  He  set  a  square  can  in  front  of  the  assayer, 
whose  lip  was  swollen  horribly.  "Have  some  butter?"  he 

368 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

asked  politely.  The  assayer  was  overcome  by  such  decent 
treatment. 

"You're  a  prince,  Bill !"  he  cried  enthusiastically.  "Give 
us  your  mitt !  Butter !"  Billy  stood  back  modestly,  while 
the  camp  bowed  to  the  man  who  owned  a  can  of  yellow 
delight  such  as  folks  ate  in  "the  States."  A  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  a  wagon  road  was  Roosevelt  then,  and  it 
was  a  tough  trail  in  warm  weather.  Winters,  a  man  packed 
his  grub  on  his  back,  and  went  without  blankets,  or  vice 
versa. 

"Read  the  manyoo,  Orville !"  ordered  Thompson,  gayly. 
Orville  had  made  up  the  menu,  because  Doc  said  at  all 
swell  feeds  you  had  one. 

Buck  was  serving  out  small  dabs  of  the  lonely  salmon, 
brought  up  from  the  big  river  by  young  Jewell,  after  he 
had  put  his  pack  horses  down  on  their  range.  There  was 
a  mushy  bit  of  potato  for  each,  the  last  of  a  tin  of  this 
useful  vegetable  (evaporated). 

"Poisin  a  lay  Jimmy  Jewell,  with  pommes  a  lay  can !" 
shouted  Orville. 

"What  in  Sam  Hill  should  we  say?"  whispered  Will- 
iams, hurriedly.  He  was  unused  to  gatherings  of  such 
elegance. 

"Let  the  bet  go  as  it  lays,  then !"  roared  Buck. 

"Well,  now  you  got  to  eat  it,"  said  Orville.  Every  man 
took  his  in  one  bite,  then  forty-one  spoons  beat  upon  forty- 
one  tin  plates.  Ed  Carpenter,  the  mining  expert  from 
Wilkesbarre,  was  observed  by  Doc  as  he  choked  in  an 
effort  to  suppress  his  mirth.  Doc  winked  expressively  at 
him,  then  turned  an  earnest  gaze  on  the  diners. 

"Caffy  ah  lay — go  on  and  pour  it  out.  It  ain't  'lay,' 
but  we  can't  think  of  French  for  black,"  explained  Orville, 
and  proceeded.  "Just  plain  beans,  Thunder  Mountain, 
and  cochin  saute." 

"What  kin  that  be?"  wondered  Injun  Billy.  It  was  the 
bacon  which  Henry  Webber  had  spent  a  couple  of  hours 
in  frying.  With  it  was  rice,  and  hot  bannock,  with  a 
little  chunk  of  butter  all  around.  Carpenter,  who  had 
bossed  the  beans,  snickered  aloud,  drawing  upon  himself 

369 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

a  frown  from  Williams,  who  was  intensely  interested  in 
this  refined  meal. 

"Venison,  reg'lar  fried  kind,  and  deer  meat  a  lay  Audi- 
torium." went  on  Orville,  putting  in  a  plug  for  his  home 
town.  "Chocolate  fancy  pudding  a  lay  Injun  Billy,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  chuck  in  the  Salmon  River  Mountains ! 
And  who  wants  a  drink  ?" 

"Bully  for  you,  Orville!  Here's  how!"  shouted  the 
crowd,  and  dinner  began  again.  There  were  speeches, 
and,  of  course,  a  song  or  two.  The  gramophone  squawked 
out  tune  after  tune.  Everybody  bought  drinks,  and  feast- 
ed, and  bought  again.  The  candles  were  lighted,  reck- 
lessly disregarding  how  many  were  burned.  Thompson 
ripped  off  ''block"  matches,  and  the  gloom  fled  before  the 
cheerful  flames. 

And  where  was  Tonopah  Smith?  It  occurred  to  vari- 
ous revellers  at  orice  that  Tonopah  was  absent.  Buck  took 
Shakespeare  and  searched  the  camp.  Tonopah  had  disap- 
peared, nor  did  Injun  Billy,  who  could  trail  anything,  find 
sign  of  him.  The  snow  was  very  heavy  and  there  was 
no  means  of  locating  him  by  ordinary  means.  They  made 
ready  for  the  vaudeville  show,  but  in  a  worried  way. 

"Where  can  the  old  sardine  be  ?"  asked  Buck,  generally. 
No  one  knew.  Shakespeare  and  the  assayer's  dog  barked 
excitedly,  the  door  opened,  and  Tonopah  fell  in. 

"Santy  Claus  is  here,"  yelled  Thompson,  but  Tonopah 
was  down  and  out.  Doc  and  Young  Jewell  lifted  him  up. 
There  was  a  bundle  under  one  arm,  and  it  growled  an- 
grily, struggling  in  the  worn  saddle  blanket,  in  which  it 
was  wrapped.  "The  child,"  muttered  Tonopah,  stupidly. 
"Here  he  is,  lil'  angel.  Found  him  cryin'  in  snow." 

"Child,  nothin' !"  howled  Injun  Billy,  leaping  at  the  bun- 
dle. "It's  my  dog  Sport !  Hi,  Sport !" 

Tonopah 's  "child"  barked  wildly,  and  broke  loose  from 
its  savior. 

Tonopah  was  in  no  condition  to  partake  of  more  fire- 
water, but  when  he  thawed  out  a  bit  he  sat  up  and  im- 
bibed with  the  rest. 

The  vaudeville  show  commenced,  with  Buck  and 

370 


ROOSEVELT  HAS  A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

clad  in  two  very  tight  woollen  skirts,  red  sweaters  and 
sombreros  with  spruce  twigs  for  garniture,  doing  a  song 
and  dance  as  a  sister  team,  to  the  gramophone's  strident 
notes.  They  elevated  their  skirts  to  a  most  unwomanly 
height,  and  made  goo-goo  eyes  in  the  most  approved 
style.  Some  of  the  $16  a  hundred  flour  did  duty  as  pow- 
der, the  whisky  had  flushed  their  damask  cheeks  enough 
to  make  rouge  unnecessary. 

"Why  don't  you  throw  dollars  on  the  stage  to  us  wim- 
men  ?"  demanded  Buck  of  the  audience. 

"  'Cause  you're  bum,"  returned  a  critical  spectator,  cru- 
elly. Orville  was  next  with  a  ballad.  He  sang  "The 
Good  Old  Summer  Time/'  probably  because  it  was  winter. 
A  quartette  obliged  with  various  good  old  airs,  and  the 
camp  joined  in.  The  show  got  all  mixed  up  with  the 
audience,  who  waltzed  about  aimlessly,  shouting  "The 
Star  Spangled  Banner"  in  patriotic  frenzy.  The  "doings" 
ended  with  a  grand  promenade  up  the  trail  through  the 
blinding  snow,  then  down  it,  every  one  singing,  and  Tono- 
pah  lugging  Injun  Billy's  dog,  who  yelped  furiously  and 
bit  Tonopah  upon  the  chin.  Buck  fired  his  gun;  the 
echoes  came  back.  Every  gun  in  camp  boomed  out  nois- 
ily, the  dogs  barked,  their  owners  yelled. 

"Yip-yip  !  Yip-yip  !  Let's  get  a  drink !"  shrieked  Doc, 
from  the  snowdrift  where  Buck  and  the  assayer  were  roll- 
ing him. 

"Goes  with  me !  Come  on !  It's  Christmas  only  once 
a  year,  boys !  Open  house  till  4  o'clock,  and  then  vamoose 
to  bed !"  It  was  Thompson,  standing  in  his  door. 

There  was  a  last  cheer,  and  Roosevelt  went  inside  to 
finish  up  its  Christmas.  "Nobody  ain't  got  nothin'  on  us 
fur  celebratin',"  said  Tonopah,  drunkenly.  "S'good  as 
forty-nine !" 


Nat  M.  Wills  and  the  "Hairless 
Mystery." 

Nat  M.  Wills  who  is  starring  in  "A  Lucky  Dog" 
this  season,  invited  Mrs.  Sheehan,  the  sister  of  his  old 
time  partner,  Dave  Halpin,  to  a  dress  rehearsal  in 
the  early  fall.  "Like  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  its  great,"  said  Mrs.  Sheehan,  with  a  smile 
and  added  "Do  you  remember  the  hairless  mystery?" 
Wills  began  to  snicker.  "I  wouldn't  be  so  ungrateful 
as  to  forget  the  good  beast,"  he  replied,  "but  it  takes 
me  back  a  few  years." 

Wills  and  Halp'.n  were  doing  an  act  called  "The 
Copper  and  the  Tramp."  It  was'nt  "vaudeville"  in 
those  days,  but  plain  "variety."  If  they  had  luck,  they 
rode  on  the  trains,  and  if  not,  under  them.  Halpin 
was  celebrated  for  the  manner  in  which  he  got  his 
trunk  from  one  jump  to  another.  Even  Nat  was  un- 
able to  discover  how  he  did  it,  but  the  trunk  always 
came  along. 

They  reached  Salt  Lake  on  a  Saturday  via  the 
brakebeams  from  Cheyenne,  broke.  Sunday  the  team 
opened  at  Sackett's  Museum,  at  a  salary  of  $30  for 
two.  •  Nat  knew  a  barkeeper  who  hailed  from  the 
East,  and  the  friendly  fellow,  when  they  located  him 
at  the  "The  Senate"  bar,  staked  them  to  a  dollar. 
They  fed  frugally,  with  an  eye  out  for  the  hungry 
morrow.  Dave  also  knew  a  man,  and  while  he  went 
off  to  hunt  the  victim,  Nat  adventur.  d  into  a  gamb- 
ling house.  Before  he  emerged,  the  half  dollar  had 
been  played  into  nineteen. 

Joyously,   he   started    for   the    corner    where    Dave 

372 


NAT   M.   WILLS   AND  "HAIRLESS   MYSTERY." 

was  to  be,  and  on  the  way,  he  met  a  much  intoxicated 
gent,  carrying,  under  one  arm  a  wierd  little  animal, 
which  barked  shrilly  and  protestingly.  Nat  had  gen- 
erously decided  to  buy  Dave  a  present.  The  week 
before,  Dave  had  blown  him  to  six  collars.  This  was 
the  place  to  return  the  courtesy,  and  as  he  walked 
along,  he  had  searched  the  windows. 

"What's  wrong  with  the  mutt?"  he  inquired  curi- 
ously. The  man  said  thickly  that  this  was  no  mutt. 
It  had  never  had  any  hair,  being  a  hairless  dog.  Nat 
was  interested.  He  had  never  before  sighted  a  Chi- 
huahua. Would  not  Dave  be  equally  pleased  with  this 
queer  creature? 

"Sell  it  for  two  bucks,"  said  the  drunken  person  tempt- 
ingly. Nat  bought  it.  It  should  be  their  pet,  because 
any  one  knows  what  a  lonely  life  it  is,  chasing  over 
the  country,  homeless.  "If  Halpin  can  get  a  trunk 
through,  he  surely  can  fix  the  dog — its  so  much 
smaller,"  he  reflected  sagely. 

Dave  did  not  chide  his  partner.  Instead,  he  ap- 
proved of  the  purchase.  They  hired  a  room,  provided 
delicacies  for  the  hairless  one,  and  fed  him  until, 
stuffed,  he  rolled  upon  one  side  and  slept. 

Before  their  first  show,  every  performer  in  the 
museum,  and  the  freaks,  had  seen  the  hairless  dog. 

The  pianist  went  behind  especially  to  look  doggie 
over.  The  treasure  had  been  named  Sackett,  in  the 
fond  hope  that  the  boss  might  feel  flattered  enough 
to  give  them  a  return  contract. 

"We  got  McNulty's  Hairless  Mystery  here  next 
week,"  remarked  the  staee  manager.  "Ever  seen  it? 
Horse  with  no  hair."  The  freak  horse  was  featured  in 
large  type  on  the  3-sheets,  as  the  "extra  attraction." 
On  the  way  home,  between  shows,  of  wh'ch  they  did 
six  a  day,  they  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  advance  billing 
of  the  remarkable  animal. 

"Laying  off  a  week  before  Grand  Rap'ds  is  <roing  to 
be  tough,  and  us  needing  clothes,"  observed  Dave. 
"Wonder  if  they  ever  play  a  turn  two  weeks  at  that 

373 


NAT   Ml   WILLS  AND   "HAIRLESS   MYSTERY." 

joint?"  Nat  didn't  think  they  did.  "We'll  have  to 
live  pretty  close  to  the  cushion,"  said  he,  "but  we  can 
slide  through." 

They  closed  on  Saturday  night.  Sunday  the  new 
show  opened,  and  being  entitled  to  the  courtesies  of 
the  house,  they  went  to  see -it.  Recollecting  that  he 
had  left  a  stick  of  grease  paint  in  a  secret  place,  Nat 
made  his  way  "in  back,"  in  search  of  it.  All  was 
excitement  on  the  stage.  "What's  coming  off?"  he 
asked. 

"The  blame  hairless  horse  won't  come  up,"  shouted 
the  manager,  adding  angrily  to  McNulty,  the  owner — 
"Say,  you  got  to  get  him  on  this  stage !" 

"I'm  trying  to,"  yelled  McNulty  desperately;  "he 
went  up  worser  ones  in  K.  C.  an'  Saint  Looey."  Nat 
whistled  to  himself  as  if  struck  by  an  idea.  "Can  I 
see  you  a  minute?"  he  asked  eagerly,  "now  you're  got 
to  replace  this  act  if  the  horse  renegs  on  it,  haven't 
you?" 

The  proprietor  admitted  that  it  looked  that  way. 
"Well,"  began  Nat  boldly,  "you've  got  a  hairless  mys- 
tery advertised?  Supposing  I  furnish  you  with  one?" 

"Oh.  don't  talk  foolish,"  said  the  boss  peevishly," 
where  you  going  to  get  one?" 

"We've  got  that  hairless  dog,  and  he's  a  wonder 
all  right,"  answered  Nat,  "we  can  frame  him  up  in  great 
shape,  and  with  me  to  do  some  comedy,  there's  your 
answer."  The  boss  reflected.  "How  much  for  the 
act?"  he  asked.  Nat  resolved  to  get  all  he  could. 
"Thirty  for  the  single  turn,"  he  said.  It  was  a  lot  of 
money,  but  the  audience  out  front,  was  even  now  un- 
easy, manifesting  its  distaste  at  the  long  wait  by 
stamping  and  clapping. 

"If  Halpin  will  go  on  as  the  skeleton  dude  its  a 
bet,"  was  Sackett's  final  offer ;  "I'm  in  a  hole,  and  you 
ought  not  to  soak  me." 

"He'll  do  it.  but  of  course  we  do  our  regular  act, 
too.  Thirty-five  for  us."  Sacket  retorted  angrily. 
He  had  Al  Leach  and  others  doing  a  tabloid  produc- 

374 


NAT  M.   WILLS   AND   "HAIRLESS   MYSTERY." 

tion  of  "Pinafore"  downstairs,  and  two  comedy  turns 
already.     Nat  would  not  listen. 

"They  raisin'  a  yell  for  the  mystery,"  exclaimed  the 
stage  manager,  "shall  I  go  make  a  talk?" 

"No!"  shouted  Sackett  angrily,  "it'll  crab  the  show. 
I'll  give  you  people  fifty-five,  you  and  the  dog  as  a 
single,  Halpin  as  the  skeleton,  and  you  close  the  show 
with  your  regular  act."  Nat  agreed.  It  was  a  fortune. 
Dave  would  make  a  satisfactory  skeleton,  for  he  was 
of  a  lathlike  slimness  at  that  time.  Luckily,  their 
wardrobe  was  still  at  the  theatre.  It  had  been  sched- 
uled to  be  sent  to  their  room  during  the  afternoon. 
Dave  himself,  bearing  the  "mystery,"  which  had  been 
seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  trembling,  in  the  crook  of 
his  arm.  wandered  behind  the  scenes  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  the  delay  in  raising  the  drop.  He  grinned 
delightedly  when  told  of  the  splendid  bargain  Nat 
had  made. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  manager  from  the 
stage,  "I  am  introducing  to  your  notice  to-day  Mc- 
Nulty's  Hairless  Mystery,  the  wonder  of  the  ages ! 
Science  is  baffled  by  it!  Europe  has  marvelled  at — 
he  paused,  casting  a  hasty  look  at  the  first  entrance  in 
which  Nat  was  waiting  his  cue,  with  "Sackett"  ready. 
He  had  no  time  to  procure  a  costume  suitable  to  a 
dog  trainer,  so  appeared  in  his  street  clothes.  "Eu- 
rope," proceeded  Sackett  sonorously,  "has  marvelled 
at  it.  Thanking  you  one  and  all  for  your  kind  atten- 
tion, yours  truly." 

He  retired.  The  audience  buzzed  expectantly. 
What  were  they  to  see  ?  A  "grip"  carried  a  gilt-chair 
on  the  stage.  The  pianist  played  a  dreamy  waltz,  and 
Nat  and  the  Hairless  Mystery  appeared.  The  latter 
was  so  tiny  that  at  first  the  spectators  still  gazed  at 
the  wings. 

"Jump!"  commanded  Nat  loudly.  Sackett  emitted 
a  shrill  squeak,  but  he  did  not  obey.  Nat  put  him  on 
the  chair,  where  he  whined  entreatingly.  Some  one 
hissed,  but  Nat,  after  holding  up  the  shivering  mys- 

375 


NAT   M.   WILLS   AND  "HAIRLESS   MYSTERY." 

tery,  suddenly  began  to  sing  a  parody.  They  laughed 
then.  He  improvised  a  line  of  monologue,  with  the 
hairless  one  as  the  target,  and  the  act  was  the  hit  of 
the  bill.  It  brought  the  people  in  all  week,  and  when 
Halpin  and  Wills,  with  the  Mystery,  left  for  their  next 
date,  they  were  affluent.  Sackett  even  offered  an- 
other week,  but  the  Mystery  was  honorably  and  per- 
manently retired  from  public  life. 


Their  First  Night  in  a  Sleeper. 

LOUISA  and  Martha  had  neved  adventured  upon  a 
sleeping  car  before.  They  timidly  followed  the  porter, 
each  bearing  a  large  assortment  of  packages  and  wraps 
and  sank  into  their,  seat,  uttering  exclamations  of 
wonder  and  pleasure.  They  observed  the  shiny  wood- 
work and  green  velvet,  and  commented  upon  it  ad- 
mir'ngly. 

They  spread  their  outfit  carefully  upon  the  opposite 
seat,  wiggled  about  until  they  were  comfortably  fixed, 
and  opened  the  box  of  lunch.  Then  Abdallah  Ben 
Hamidi,  boss  of  the  "Arabian  Whirlwinds."  strolled 
in  from  the  smoker.  He  had  the  lower  berth  in  the 
section  of  which  Martha  had  confidingly  accepted  the 
upper  from  a  mean  ticket  clerk. 

He  was  large,  and  swarthy,  with  a  huge  diamond 
horseshoe  in  his  tie.  But  he  was  polite.  "Ver'  mooch 
bad,  but  no  can  help,"  said  he  apologetically,  "train 
he  mooch  peop'  on  board,  so  I  haf  set  in  my  seat. 
S'cuse." 

Martha  and  Louisa,  like  two  frightened'  elderly 
sparrows,  twittered  and  twisted  ureas'ly  in  their  con- 
fusion. They  gathered  up  the  lunch,  and  dropped 
it,  and  Abdallah  collected  the  oranges  and  cake,  and 
helped  them  rearrange  their  camp. 

"Ees  my  luck,"  he  reflected,  "where  they  goin' 
sleep?  No  can  bunk  up  top,  two  wimmens.  But 
'tain't  my  fault.  I  read  pape'  and  pretend  no  see." 
He  hid  behind  his  newspaper. 

Louisa  and  Martha  sat  across  from  him.  holding 
each  other's  hands,  in  agony  lest  the'r  respectable 
feet  should  knock  against  the  big,  shiny  shoes  of  this 

377 


THEIR  FIRST  NIGHT  IN  A  SLEEPER. 

frightening  man.  The  train  lurched  drunkenly  round- 
ing a  curve,  and  Martha  did  a  stunt  like  the  circus 
lady's  through  the  paper  hoops,  as  she  shot  forward, 
her  shamed  head  bursting  through  the  Arabian  gentle- 
man's paper. 

"Oh,  Lousia!"  she  cried,  unhappily.  "That  ain't 
nothing,  not  bit!"  said  Abdallah,  soothingly,  but  he 
only  added  to  their  embarrassment,.  Abdallah  dug 
up  another  paper.  He  couldn't  read  English,  but  th«y 
didn't  know  it.  They  sat  in  silence,  until  Martha  be- 
gan to  wonder  where  they  were  to  sleep?  It  was  a 
sleeping  car,  but  where  were  the  beds  ? 

They  consulted  and  whispered.  Finally  Martha 
made  an  unsteady  way  to  the  end,  where  a  bit  of  the 
porter's  white  jacket  showed.  She  was  pale  and 
agitated  when  sihe  returned.  "We  sleep  in  these," 
she  said.  "Oh,  sister !  And  this  man  is  in  it,  too ! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

They  were  ove/rcome  with  horror.  How  did  you 
sleep  in  them,  and  surely,  surely,  a  soulless  corpora- 
tion, as  they  had  heard  the  railroad  called  on  the 
Evening  Guff's  back  page,  would  not  force  two  refined 
ladies  of  the  best  old  Dutch  blood  of  Pennsylvania, 
to — delicacy  prevented  them  from  saying  it. 

Abdallah,  opposite,  eyed  them  over  the  paper. 
What  were  these  little  ladies  gabbing  about?  "Ees 
goin'  be  beeg  crowd  with  all  of  us,  hey?"  he  remarked 
pleasantly,  a  moment  later,  innocently.  He  felt  that 
they  needed  cheer.  "I  got  HI'  bot'  arrack,  ver'  fine, 
no  get  in  America,  'tall.  You  lak'  HI'  dreenk,  mak' 
you  feel  fine,"  he  added.  They  worried  him. 

For  answer,  Martha  and  Louisa  arose  and  fled, 
leaving  the  lunch  and  packages  behind.  The  man 
drank!  And  he  spoke  gayly  of — oh,  they  couldn't 
say  it!  Blushing,  they  bore  down  upon  the  porter, 
and  demanded,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  his  protection. 
"Dat  gemmen  doan'  mean  nuffin',  ladys,"  he  replied, 
"but  Ah'll  go  wif  -"-o,  an  s'plain  bote  de  berfs.  Yo' 
all  doan  understan'." 

378 


THEIR  FIRST  NIGHT  IN  A  SLEEPER. 

Reinforced  by  the  porter,  the  ladies  went  back. 
Abdallah  was  mad  now,  and  he  did  not  even  look  at 
them.  "Ees  beeg  fool,"  said  he  privately  to  the  porter, 
who  nodded.  The  two  men  across  the  way  grinned 
at  Abdallah,  and  the  one  ahead  peeped  over  his  seat 
and  winked  knowingly. 

WSien  publicly  questioned  by  the  porter.  Martha 
adimtted  that  they  would  like  to  retire.  They  were 
quite  desperate.  How  one  could  decently  disrobe  and 
prepare  for  rest  in  this  place  seemed  a  mystery.  The 
porter  solved  it  by  making  up  both  berths.  The  two 
men  invited  Abdallah  to  join  them  until  he  wanted  to 
go  to  bed,  and  the  ladies  sat  gingerly  waiting  in  an- 
other section. 

"Ready!"   called   the    porter,   fetching  his   "steps." 

"Never,  no,  never !"  cried  Louisa  shrilly.  She  said 
they  could  not  climb  up  in  front  of  those  men.  The 
porter  screened  them  with  the  heavy  curtains,  and 
Martha  took  a  chance.  She  arrived  safely,  and  Louisa 
hoisted  up  the  lunch,  wraps,  bags  and  bundles. 

Somehow  she  also  got  up. 

But  the  bags  took  up  all  the  room !  They  sat, 
cross-legged,  in  the  midst  of  their  belongings,  emitt- 
ing hopeless  squeals.  Abdallah  relented.  Being  tall, 
he  calmly  pulled  aside  their  curtains,  and  gesticulated 
with  his  bag,  ringed  hand. 

Martha  screeched  for  help.  Why  had  they  ever 
begun  this  terrible  trip? 

"You  tak'  my  bed  an'  I  come  up  here,  see?"  said 
Abdallah  gently.  "Come,  lil'  birds,  don'  be  mak'  such 
a  noise !" 

Subdued  snorts  came  from  all  around,  as  the  pass- 
engers endeavored  to  conceal  their  mirth.  "Help! 
help!  help!"  shrieked  Martha.  The  two  men  got  up. 
The  tallest  one  begged  her  to  be  calm.  He  said  he  had 
four  children  at  home,  and  a  wife — they  could  trust 
him.  The  dark  gentleman  was  only  trying  to  assist 
them,  and  if  they  would  come  down,  all  would  be  well. 

Abdallah  retreated,  puzzled  bv  these  strange  women. 
Finally  Martha  and  Louisa  settled  in  the  lower  berth. 

370 


THEIR  FIRST  NIGHT  IN  A  SLEEPER. 

Their  heads  could  be  heard  bumpinf  against  the  top, 
and  Martha  said  she  would  pin  the  money  inside  her 
corset.  Then  removing  this  useful  garment— the  pro- 
cess was  quite  audible — she  found  that  wouldn't  do. 
Louisa  said  hesitatingly  that  Cousin  'Melia  carried 
hers  in  her  stocking,  but  Martha,  shocked,  said  they 
would  remain  ladies,  even  if  robbers  secured  all  their 
valuables. 

They  cackled  and  fretted,  and  Louisa  wound  the 
clock,  which  was  in  one  of  the  bundles.  The  porter 
came  thiough.  "Telegram  for  John  P.  Smith!"  he 
shouted.  Mr.  Smith  claimed  it.  Martha  and  Louisa 
awoke.  How  could  a  man  get  a  telegram  on  a  mov- 
ing train  ? 

And  suppose  this  was  the  wrong  train,  and  they 
wouldn't  get  there  after  all?  And  'Melia's  husband 
might  not  be  at  the  station!  Abdallah,  in  the  berth 
above,  cursed  low  in  Arabic. 

"Ee'll  be  there,  quit  mak  sooch  a  fuss!"  He  shouted 
finally.  There  was  quiet.  They  were  quaking,  fearing 
for  their  lives.  Perhaps  he  carried  a  kn'fe.  A  train- 
man went  past  outside  at  a  stop  with  a  flaming  tdrch, 
which  he  thrust  under  the  train.  Certain  that 
it  was  on  fire,  Martha  and  Louise  arose. 

The  two  men  opposite  woke  up,  and  came  forth  in 
the;r  flannel  nightshirts.  John  P.  Smith,  in  his  blue 
paiamas.  Abdallah  in  his  silk  ones,  looking  out  from 
above,  and  the  porter,  all  united  to  lull  the  fright  of 
the  ladies. 

At  five,  their  usual  hour  of  rising  when  at  home, 
they  got  up.  and,  willy  n'llv,  Abdallah  had  to  eet  up 
too.  becauce  there  wasn't  any  place  for  the  ladies  to 
sit  unless  he  did. 

Martha  and  I  ouisa  left  the  train  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
'Melia's  husband  was  warting  on  the  platform. 
T  onisa  pressed  a  nickel  into  the  porter's  hand. 
"Don't  .vou  spend  it  on  rum,  will  you?"  she  said, 
pleadingly. 

"Mak'  up  my  berth  again,"  ordered  Abdallah, 
wearily.  "I'm  goin'  sleep  all  day." 

380 


A     000130251     2 


